Gunpowder & Lead
by ThePsiFiles
Summary: 2012 Movieverse. Follows "Flash The Bronze". Anderson goes to sector 119 to file paperwork & speak to Cornelius' chief - and helps with a routine door-kicking operation. But nothing is routine in Mega City One, and Anderson and the chief soon find themselves in over their heads, alone & without backup. Never a safe place . . . for perps, that is! Just what ARE little girls made of?
1. Preparation

**A/n :** Detailed author's notes for this story appear at the end of each chapter. General notes about my "Dredd" fanon setting (and links to inspiration pictures etc.) appear on my profile.

This story takes place _immediately_ following "Flash The Bronze" and continues my fanon stories.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Gunpowder &amp; Lead**

**Prog 1 : Preparation**

Sector House 119 was an oasis of orderly calm and structured authority in the center of the sector. It was a squat, armored building with only three of its five levels above ground, sitting in the middle of a compact blacktop plaza ringed with a plasteen palisade fence topped with coils of electrified razorwire. It occupied the corner of a city-block, secured and guarded gates on the sides where the roads ran, electronic-eye surveyed alleys kept conspicuously clear of trash and vagrants on the other two sides.

Anderson flicked her head upwards at the bored-looking auxiliary in the armored guard-booth, but he didn't raise the barrier and the robot brain behind the machine guns mounted on the gateposts swiveled the heavy weapons, tracking and bracketing her in a potential killing-zone. "Name, sector and business, please," the auxiliary's crisp voice said over the external speaker. The mind she felt buzzing beyond the glass was careful, undistracted, focused on following process. She smiled, more impressed than inconvenienced.

"Anderson, Cassandra J, Psi Division," she said. "Filing paperwork with SectComm." She saw the auxiliary tap at the terminal in front of him, psynsing his curiosity about the unusual assignment well-controlled behind efficiency. He leaned into the microphone.

"Approach scanner for gauntlet read, please, Ma'am," he asked. Obediently, she edged her bike forward – the guns swiveled to track her – and held her arm out. Her lawscreen beeped metallically, a blue progress bar moving along as it analyzed her DNA on the order of the gate-scanner. Red lights flashed to green and the guns faced away, pointing to the street behind her, automatically tracking the vehicles moving past. The barrier lifted. "Please park in red section, Ma'am," the auxiliary said. "Blue and gold are reserved for operation vehicles." Anderson lifted her foot off the ground and eased forward, glancing at the markings stenciled on the asphalt. Red section was tucked away to the side of the building, blue and gold occupying the prime positions in front of the main entrance. She slid her bike into a space, killed the engine, flipped down the kickstand and swung herself off it. She automatically removed her helmet as she jogged to the front of the building.

The blue and gold zones were filled with vehicles and their riders – a half-dozen lawmasters, two catch-wagons modified with metal grilles over the windows and run-flat tires for riot duty, and a snout-nosed urban tank in heavily-scuffed matte black. Three driver auxiliaries – for the two vans and the tank – and six Judges were standing around; their minds hummed with intention, a buzzing mixture of eagerness, discipline and focus. She could have read the signs – _big op, just about to go down_ – from a mile away. The youngest Judge – his thoughts a bright arrowhead still with the Academy's gloss on it – was seated astride a gleaming lawmaster, diligently scrolling through information on the screen. She psynsed the protective, paternal connection between him and a stocky, husky Judge with a rugged face. _Rookie on assessment,_ Anderson realized.

A slender Judge with close-cropped blond hair and a handsome, aquiline face that gave him a youthful appearance at odds with the experience in his ice-blue eyes lifted his chin at her. "Help you, Ma'am?" he asked from where he was leaning against the flank of the tank.

She smiled at him – the weight of his attention was refreshing; there was no critical assessment of her beauty or speculation about her abilities as was, sadly, all-too-common. "Sector chief?" she asked. He raised his hand and pointed.

"I think she's inside, Ma'am," he said. "Probably in the foyer. Best hurry," he added as she flashed a salute in thanks and turned away, "we deploy in five."

Compared to the summer brightness of the morning outside the foyer was dim, coolness radiating from the plasteen walls, refreshing after the heat inside her uniform and coming off the blacktop. Anderson didn't wait for her eyes to adjust, instead using her psynses to navigate. At the far end of the foyer two auxiliaries sat behind the reception desk, a Judge pressing a handcuffed perp's face into the surface of the table as one of them booked him in. Off to one side two Judges stood in quiet conference. Anderson attracted the woman's attention with the merest shove of her mind against hers. Without really understanding why, the tough-looking, hard-bitten Sector Chief turned to face her. "Chief Daz," Anderson said crisply.

The Sector Chief was at least a head-shorter than any of the men outside, around Anderson's height and seeming even shorter with the long widowmaker in her hands. She studied the younger Judge, reading her expression with years of street-experience. She nodded once and half-turned to address the heavy-set Judge hovering over her shoulder. "Mount up, Reynolds," she said. "I'll be right out."

Reynolds didn't even try to be subtle about looking Anderson up and down, his expression only-just this side of contemptuous insubordination. "I can wait here, Chief," he said. She didn't need to be a psi to know what he was thinking – jowly, bulky, set in his ways, he was every stereotype of something the Academy strove to stamp out but never could. It was inevitable, Anderson reflected – although recruitment was gender-blind, the percentage of women in the Judges was lower than in the general population. And, of those, a significant proportion served in Tek, MediDiv, or administrative roles. Street Judges were one of the last bastions of sexism in the city – notwithstanding the current Chief Judge and SectComs like Daz. Even, Anderson guessed, Street Judges like her.

_Division-Chief_ she reminded herself with a faint smile.

"But us girls wanna talk _secrets_, Reynolds," she said sweetly. The flare of anger from him did not seem like a reward – it concerned her. He and Cornelius would butt heads – perhaps more than heads. He didn't seem a fit for this sector, with its female chief and officers like the polite man outside. Reynolds' thoughts were raw and unfiltered, bobbing on the surface of his mind. Anderson probed a little deeper and got her answer – he was newly-transferred to this sector. For the second time that day, her psynses prompted a name – _Calitri_. Of course – he was a sector 24 Judge, experienced with Calitri's organization, moved here to help Daz deal with the new-perp-in-the-'block.

Reynolds folded his arms and addressed Daz. "I can lead the op, Chief," he offered, "if you and . . ." He glanced at her briefly "_Anderson_ want to chat." It might have been effective theater for others, but to Anderson it rang hollow – she knew he'd noticed her name when she first spoke.

Daz looked at Anderson, her green eyes hard and smoky like chips of forgotten wintergreen candy, assessing what she saw there. The senior Judge was Dredd's age – maybe a little older; at least a twenty-year vet, likely twenty-five, and her experience was visible in the careful crows-feet at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair was black streaked with gray, drawn back in a tight ponytail. She was wiry beneath the bulk of her armor, quick in her movements, handling the big shotgun as easily as a lawgiver. She didn't turn behind her. "You still here, Reynolds?" she asked as if he hadn't spoken.

To his credit, he was wise enough to know when not to press the issue. "No, _Ma'am!_" he barked, snapping to attention and saluting. His boots stomping on the tiles, he marched out of the doors. The two women could hear him barking orders as they swung shut.

To _her_ credit, Anderson managed not to smile triumphantly. Partially, that was because Daz was still looking at her and even the psi found herself quailing a little before her flinty gaze. It was obvious why Daz had been chosen for the sector 119 assignment – Anderson found herself standing a little straighter, wondering if she'd got the paperwork _just_ right, very aware of the irregulation variations in her equipment and uniform. She was clearly a capable Judge, fit and tough and still leading door-kicker ops herself, but she'd been selected for her ability to not only lead but mold a team. Privately, Anderson felt a very faint swell of pride that the Chief Judge had thought the sector 119 project worthy of such a SectComm. "So golden boy said yes, huh?" Daz asked with a very faint smile.

The title she gave Cornelius was a superficial dismissal – of them both – but Anderson didn't let it bother her. She flitted her awareness over Daz's consciousness – it was a supremely-disciplined mindscape, perhaps deliberately so in the psi's presence, but the teasing, testing undercurrent was clear. "He did," was all she said. "Again, thank you for . . ." Daz cut her off with a shake of her head.

"Thank you for not going over my helmet, Judge Anderson," she said. "Powdervine says you've got an in with CJ – I've lost good men before and . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I appreciate being asked," she finished. Anderson didn't really know how to respond to the kindness or the implication of politicking – she made a non-committal noise and didn't say anything. Daz jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "File the paperwork at the front desk – auxiliary's got orders to post it with HOJ immediately." She shifted the weight of the shotgun in her hands, glanced at her chronometer. "I've got time to give it – you got the inclination to hear it?" she asked bluntly.

Anderson smiled, kinked her own butcher-blue eyes. When on duty, she was as immune to insult as Dredd was to pleas for clemency. She wasn't a green-helmet by any means, but Daz had more years on the street than she had alive, and she'd worked with Cornelius for five months. It would be the acme of foolishness – not to mention pure hubris – to refuse. "Advice?" she asked. "Always – might not take it, though," she admitted.

"Don't get too close to him," Daz said. "He's a good Judge – one of the best I've seen, and he was a natural fit for here. He'll be missed, and he'll be good for your division. But he doesn't know when to let go, he gets too close to cases. I won't say a pretty face'll turn his head, but a sob story will. You're both young – and I know what that's like," she said with more than academic detachment. "Just be careful, Judge Anderson," she finished.

Anderson nodded. "Thank you, Judge Daz," she said simply. She didn't care for the implication being made, but she suspected Daz had reasons unconnected to her and Cornelius. She didn't want to probe too-deeply – everyone was entitled to their secrets if they didn't jeopardize justice. "I know you're worried – but those things are why I chose him for PsiDiv, and neither of us are idiots. We know the rules." Daz shook her head indulgently.

"Neither of you are green Rookies, but you've both got a lot to learn," she said, not unkindly. "It's not just a matter of not knocking boots; hot as he is – and I've seen him in the locker room, remember – you're not about to make that mistake, nor he with you. Speaking candidly – and this is advice from one commander to another – a couple of horny kids making a single mistake is sometimes less of a problem than two people who actually give a damn about each other. And that's the point I'm making," she explained. "Cornelius cares, deeply – oh, he'll swear on The Law he doesn't and twist himself into a pretzel trying explain why it isn't what it looks like, but we're both women of the world and we know the truth. It's why you requested him and why I was going to put him in charge of a shift just as soon as a slot opened up. It's his greatest strength – but don't let it become his weakness. You get me, Judge Anderson?" she asked.

The psi nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I do – again, thank you, Judge Daz. For everything." Daz shrugged it off.

"I've got to bounce," she said. "Op isn't about to lead itself. We're hitting a guy called Giuseppe Calitri – local gangboss." She narrowed her eyes. "How reliable is that intel, Judge Anderson?"

Anderson shrugged. "Cornelius trusted it," she said shortly.

Daz nodded. "Good enough for me," she said with a smile. She gestured at the desk. "File the paperwork there," she repeated, shouldering the shotgun and striding towards the door.

"Any objections to me adjudicating in your sector?" Anderson called from the desk. Daz half-turned back, shaking her head. "I've got a zonejump booked for twenty-one hundred – couldn't get a flight out earlier," she explained. "Might as well make myself useful 'til then – who assigns patrols?" Behind her, the auxiliary opened the long blue envelope and busied himself with the forms inside, very deliberately not looking at either of the Judges.

Daz stretched the widowmaker over both shoulders, hanging her wrists from it as she turned all the way to face Anderson, walking towards her. She narrowed her smoky-green eyes, a half-smile on her thin lips as she considered the younger woman's mix of moxie and kindness. She'd phrased the question cleverly – asking if Daz had any objections, rather than asking if the sector needed any help. It gave Daz no opportunity to refuse – nor any opportunity to be offended. "You could talk to Giant," she said slowly. "He's deputy chief of alpha shift . . . or you could come along to deal with Calitri," she offered. "The patrols are covered, but I could use more manpower on the raid."

Anderson nodded. "And I did just cost you your best door-kicker," she said. Daz laughed shortly.

"Don't tell Giant I agreed with you," she smiled, "but, yes, you did." She flicked her head. "All of this is your fault," she reminded the psi with a grin. "You in, or out?"

Anderson didn't even really need to think about it; despite the fact Daz was clearly ribbing her, she felt she owed the sector chief one for Cornelius. And it was true; it was her fault – they were hitting the gangboss because of _her_ intel. If it was inaccurate and the op went south, she should be there to take the fall and shield Daz and her men from any blowback. She nodded. "Sure," she said lightly.

Daz was already moving towards the door as she spoke, the younger woman's acceptance assured, and Anderson had to jog to catch up with her. It was suddenly bright outside, the sun just-cresting the buildings to the east. "Alright, listen up!" Daz's voice snapped the men to attention. "This is Anderson – she got us the Calitri intel. She's riding with us – any questions?"

Reynolds lifted his chin. "She should ride widowmaker in the tank with you, Chief," he suggested. "Safer when the bullets start flying."

"Suggestion noted," Daz said evenly, "and dismissed. She rides her lawmaster – extra biker." Reynolds didn't look convinced, but neither did he say anything more.

"You implying riding in the tank is a cushy job, bro?" asked the blond Judge. His grin seemed genuine enough, but his ice-blue eyes were suddenly colder. "You wanna do it? Anderson and I can secure the exit." He faced her and smiled, pushing himself off the flank of the tank. "Chris Taylor," he said, offering his hand.

She shook it, the sudden flash of connection telling her an intimate detail she didn't need to know but which revealed his offer was politeness rather than unprofessional interest. "Cassandra Anderson," she said. She kept hold of his hand for an awkward second as something flashed into her mind. "Daz?" she asked, letting go of Taylor's hand. "Can I make suggestion? Have Reynolds in the tank with you – you're op leader, and he's got intel on Calitri's organization. It's a waste to have him guarding a door." She flicked her chin at Taylor. "Put Chris in the assault, have Hamilton and Jordan watch the back." She turned to the Rookie. "No offense, Jordan," she said, "but . . ." The Rookie shook his head, flattered by the fact she used his name but determined not to show it.

"None taken, Ma'am," he assured her. He faced Daz. "If I might be permitted an opinion, Ma'am?" he asked. "I believe Judge Anderson's suggestions make the most effective use of our available resources. Judge Reynolds' knowledge is what makes him most valuable, and Judge Taylor's experience . . ."

"Bro," said Taylor briskly. "My blushes. Shut the drokk up."

Daz considered for about a second – it made perfect sense. Reynolds had been eager to put the longer-established Judges in the prime door-kicking roles (and even give the senior Taylor the safer position inside the tank), taking the dull duty of securing the exit before the rest of the squad arrived. It was a kindness, doubtless designed to ingratiate himself with them and stop him from looking like a glory-hound, but unnecessary. Sector 24 might do it differently, but 119 was all about efficiency and the end result. Reynolds would learn that soon enough, if he stuck around. She nodded. "Let's do it," she said. "Reynolds, you're with me. Hamilton, you and your Rookie watch the back door."

"I can handle the exits, Chief," Reynolds assured her. Daz shook her head, but it was Anderson who spoke.

"Exits?" she asked. She looked at Taylor. "Chris said exit, singular. You scouted it?" Reynolds looked flustered – he actually gave Anderson the respect her bronze deserved.

"No, Ma'am," he stammered. "No eyeballs on it, I mean – read the report. But it's a big warehouse – probably a couple of back doors, you know?"

Daz nodded. "Probably right," she said. "All the more reason to put two Judges on it – Hamilton, you and the Rookie are up. Get moving. Don't be seen – but if you _need_ to go loud . . ." She left the sentence unfinished. Hamilton nodded grimly.

"Me and the kid can bring the noise, boss," he assured her. He flicked his head at Jordan, and he and the Rookie started their engines and peeled away. Anderson knew they would switch to the backup electric motors once they got within range of the warehouse. Daz watched them go and then turned back.

"Taylor," she said, "take Reynolds' bike and lead the assault with Anderson."

Taylor nodded and grinned. "Yes, Ma'am!" he said. He actually winked at Anderson. "Blondes have more fun, amirite?" he asked. He stepped past her, beckoning at Reynolds. "Gimmie the keys, bro," he said.

Reynolds didn't look happy. "Aw, Chief, _c'mon!_" he moaned. "I just had her tuned and she's got fresh battenburg."

Taylor spread his hands. "You don't trust me, bro?" he asked innocently. "I'll treat her like she was my own."

"_Yeah,_" said Reynolds. "That's what I'm worried about – where is your bike?" Taylor looked sheepish.

"In the shop," he admitted, "but that wasn't my fault, bro. Claymore mines coulda happened to _anyone_."

Reynolds turned to Daz. "Let him take one from the pool, Chief," he begged. "I've got her just the way I like her, she looks so good . . ." His voice trailed off as Anderson tried – and ultimately failed – to suppress her snicker. With that, the rest of the Judges laughed.

"Request denied," said Daz with a grin. "Taylor?" she said mock-seriously. "Take her out, show her a good time, but . . . treat her right, okay?" she added with a grin that collapsed into a snorting laugh. Reynolds scowled, but obediently swung himself out of the saddle. As he and Taylor crossed, they banged their forearms together, transferring the digital 'keys' from one onboard computer to another.

Reynolds wrenched the tank door open and hauled himself into the passenger seat. He perched there, loading an extended mag widowmaker with unnecessary force, glaring as Taylor actually _sauntered_ over to the bike.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. "Come here often?" He slapped the rear paniers with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Ooo, yeah," he purred, "you like that, don't you, baby?"

There was general laughter, even from Reynolds. "Drokk you, man," he said without particular malice.

"Alright, enough," ordered Daz with a grin. "Simple op, you know the drill. We got probable thanks to Anderson's intel – she tied Calitri to the Lucido heist. Objective is grabs not slabs – suppressor and stun rounds, and gentle with the daystick, Carter!" she said with a smile. Carter, a surprisingly meek-looking Judge who might have seemed less out-of-place in Accounting, shrugged apologetically.

"I still maintain those creeps had brittle bones or something, Chief," he opined.

"I want Calitri," said Daz. "and evidence to put him away for _time_. Any of his men are gravy – if you need to, let them run. We can pick 'em up later."

"What about Kim?" asked a short, stocky Judge with olive skin and a shaven head. His badge said his name was Gomez – even with the corners rubbed off by the Academy's tuition, his accent was obvious. "She likely to be there?"

Reynolds shook his head. "Man, Kim don't know _nothing_ about Calitri's business," he assured him. "She's just some bubble-headed bimbo spending daddy's money."

"Then we nail her on receipt of stolen goods, living on the proceeds of criminal enterprise, that kind of thing," suggested Mitchel. Anderson could sense the connection between him and Gomez that suggested they were partners. He shrugged. "She's all over the TV, her and that teacup robopoodle. The premieres, all the nightclubs, turns up for the opening of an envelope – can't open a screamsheet without seeing her in a bikini. Public viz, Reynolds," he explained. "We've gotta send her down just for the _look_ of the thing if nothing else."

Reynolds shook his head. "Chief," he said, "I joined the Judges to bust perps, not celebutants."

"You joined the Judges to obey orders, Reynolds," Daz said sharply. "Kim Calitri's a legitimate target. Any questions?"

"Yeah," said Anderson slowly, looking carefully at the male Judges, very deliberately including Taylor even though she didn't need to. "Kim Calitri. Like Mitchel said, we've all seen her in a bikini – hot little brunette thing with a killer tush, right?" She smiled as all the guys except Taylor had the decency to look embarrassed. "Maybe you boys should leave her to Daz or me," she suggested. "Don't want her lawyer muddying the waters by saying the grab got a little too grabby, know what I mean?"

Reynolds scowled. "We're _professionals_, Anderson," he snarled. She shrugged.

"Sure you are," she said. "But don't you want to see me and her catfighting, _Eliot?_" She didn't wait for an answer, instead slipping her helmet on and jogging towards her bike. The other Judges exchanged puzzled glances.

"Your name is _Eliot_, bro?" Taylor asked.

**A/n :** Some notes on details in this story; I've tried to show Anderson's use of her psychic powers here as something she is using all the time, but without it being intrusive to the narrative. I've coined the word "psynses" to refer to her _psy_chic se_nses_ – feel free to borrow it if you think it is cool!

The reference to "battenburg" (also the reference to "blues-and-twos" in other stories) is a reference to British police forces. Battenburg is a kind of (delicious) checkered cake – it is the name given the checkered markings on the side of emergency vehicles. "Blues-and-twos" is blue lights and two toned sirens; another British police reference. And no, before you ask; I have no idea what a lawmaster looks like with checks on the side in my headcanon!

Sector 119 is the sector Cornelius requested (detailed in "Aegis" and "Flash The Bronze"). The reference comes from "Dredd 2" by aaron.92 (story faved on my profile) which is canonical for my stories (and is an EXCELLENT story – seriously, you should read it). Basically, this sector is used as a proving ground for a new strategy for policing.

Judge Daz is inspired by Starsurfer108 (or, at least, the biographical notes I asked for as a favor!) Starsurfer108 is very active in the fandom, and reviewed my stuff very nicely, and is just a generally all-round good egg. So, get reviewing _the_ _Surfer-of-Stars'_ stories!

In fact – why not review _this_ story too? Lookit; the review box is _right there!_ Just under here. All you've got to do is type what you thought in there and hit a single button. If you review, I will write back and _promise_ I will review something of yours. And, who knows? Maybe you too can get a character inspired by you! It'll be a heroic one, I promise (unless you _want_ to be a perp!)


	2. Raid

**Prog 2 : Raid**

The segmented steel crumpled like tinfoil when the tank crashed through it. The rolling door was torn from its overhead mountings and crushed beneath the tracks' cleats. Inside the cab, Daz and Reynolds jerked slightly in their seats, but were not otherwise inconvenienced.

The tank crunched forward into the warehouse – it was one of several that Calitri owned nearby, all newly-bought since he arrived from sector 24. The evidence Anderson had pulled from the perp's head about the Lucido jewelry heist gave Daz PC – _probable cause_ rather than _political correctness_. There was _nothing_ politically correct about door-kicking with a drokking _tank_.

"Hamilton, you got the rear exit?" Daz asked into her helmet mic.

"_Two of 'em, Ma'am._" Hamilton's voice came back instantly, calm as a parade. "_Rookie's on one, I'm covering the other._" Daz nodded, sweeping the sensor reports for heavy weapons that might threaten the bikers. Except for panicking perps, the screens were clear. She hit the release button for her restraints and grabbed her shotgun, standing on the seat to open the hatch. "You waiting for an invite, Reynolds?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am!" exclaimed Reynolds, kicking the door opening and leaping out, his own weapon booming. Two scurrying figures went down, twitching, caught in the expanding filament nets of the widowmaker suppressor rounds. "On the floor! Hands on your heads! This is a raid! _Move!_" Behind the tank, through the hole it had torn in the front of the warehouse, five bikes sped in, Anderson and Taylor in the lead. Stun rounds burst from their lawgivers.

The warehouse was large – a two-story building the size of an areoball field filled with rows and rows of metal rack shelving, stacked with crates and boxes. There were latticework catwalks suspended above, with a prefab office tucked onto a mezzanine floor. There had been workers milling around – some taking inventory or packing up shipments, one or two driving forklift loaders, and a few clustered around a table just inside the door, eating donuts and drinking synthi-caf. Now, that table was crushed, the greasy treats and steaming black tar smeared on the floor and the front of the tank.

Anderson swung her bike around, blocking an aisle and pointing her lawgiver down it. "Hold it, creeps!" she ordered. Two workers assumed almost-comical looks of shock and turned to run, one throwing a box at her as they did. She lifted her gun-arm, knocking it away even as she fishtailed her bike and sped after them. "Hey!" she snapped, coming up behind one and smashing him in the back of the head with the butt of her pistol. "I don't talk for my health!"

The perp crumpled with a cry. Anderson didn't even watch him hit – someone would grab him later. She raced down the aisle, abruptly slamming on the brakes without realizing she wanted to. She skidded to a halt, lurching forward in the saddle, an instant before a forklift truck went speeding past, the tines of the lifter inches from her wheels. "Thank you, mutie powers!" she muttered, shooting the driver as he went past. The stun round shocked him to unconsciousness, the forklift veering to the side and careening into the shelves.

Standing on top of the tank, Daz directed her men from her elevated position. "Fan out!" she shouted. "Find Calitri!" The room was roaring with gunfire and cries of men shocked by stun and suppressor rounds. Most of the workers were just that – laborers hired because robots were too-expensive to buy and couldn't be relied on to have professional bad memories about what really came in with the shipment – and so there was little resistance. Here and there one of Calitri's men decided to be a foolish big-shot and try to have it out with a Judge, with predictable results.

There was an ugly clang and cry of pain from below her; Daz glanced down to see Carter had wrenched a perp into an armlock and slammed him face-first into the side of the tank. She swept the warehouse one final time and then shouldered her shotgun, leaping down to stand next to him. "Your boss," she demanded, "where is he?"

Taylor, still astride Reynolds' bike, looked upwards. Standing on the mezzanine floor, having just come out of the prefab office, was a strikingly beautiful woman with lustrous dark hair and exquisitely made-up eyes. She had a magnificent figure with enough voluptuous curves to make a senior Tutor forget his oath wrapped in a leather miniskirt and chocolate-brown synthi-silk blouse. "Kim Calitri!" he roared, his eyes fixed on her and sending the bike speeding forward. "You're under arrest!"

"_Look out!_" someone yelled – just in time for the Judge, but not the bike. Taylor turned, frantically leaping out of the saddle, as the lawmaster was broadsided by one of the forklifts. Taylor tumbled clear, his helmet falling off, as the heavy tines punctured the tires and dragged the bike along the ground, crushing it against the wall with a decisively final _crash!_

"Oh, you _didn't_ . . ." Reynolds muttered despairingly as Taylor, almost sheepishly, rolled to his feet and shot the driver in the back. He didn't hang about, instead running towards the stairs that led to the mezzanine and Kim.

Anderson leaped off her bike, her eyes unfocused, reaching out with her psynses to locate her quarry. She used a ladder to clamber up the shelving, running along the top of the racks, weaving in and out of the boxes, jumping from row to row. She stopped, trusting her instincts, and put her shoulder against a heavy crate, pushing hard.

She winced as it crashed to the floor, a pained cry echoing upwards as it smashed onto the fleeing perp. She closed her eyes, tearing her helmet off and reaching out with her mind. Her hand pressed to her forehead – just for the look of the thing, if the truth be known – she riffled through the chaotic jumble of thought around her. It was delicious anarchy, like being buffeted in the hop-pit at the Bop Shop. "Daz!" she shouted. "Calitri's in the northwest corner. Rookie – he's got a knife!"

At the rear exit Jordan leaped back just in time as the perp who'd 'surrendered' when he saw the exit was guarded whipped a blade clear and slashed. "Thank you, Ma'am!" he said, ducking under the return stroke and bringing up his fist. "Judge assault!" he cried as the perp's chin snapped back. "Five years!"

On the mezzanine floor, Kim slashed her gorgeous eyes towards Anderson, her delectable mouth opening in a knowing snarl. Anderson felt something and turned to face the beautiful brunette, lifting her pistol as she did.

Kim's attention wasn't on her any longer – she'd pulled a derringer from her purse and was pointing it down the stairs at Taylor. The Judge was running towards her, his own gun still holstered, as if he didn't see her weapon or flag her as a threat. "Now, I don't want to hurt you . . ." he was saying. Kim smiled thinly and brought her other hand up, pointing the gun two-handed. Her narrow arms tightened as she braced.

Anderson shot her, the stun round hitting in her in the ribs. She gave a cry and collapsed, her muscles twitching and the derringer going off. The bullet actually hit Taylor, thankfully obliquely and in the armor, bouncing off. He started as if shook awake, catching Kim as she collapsed. She lolled, alluring in his arms, synthi-silk and leather stretching over splendid curves as he marched down the stairs, carrying her like a poolguard who'd saved her from drowning. The stun round had burned a hole in her blouse, the edges still faintly smoldering – but that was nothing compared to the raw heat radiating from the unexpected and impromptu connection between the perp and the Judge.

Anderson glanced around the warehouse; Daz herself had arrested Calitri, frog-marching the cuffed gangboss to the center of the warehouse where Reynolds and Carter were standing guard over kneeling perps. Mitchel and Gomez were methodically sweeping the aisles, taking each turn carefully, professional behind their guns. Anderson sat on the edge of the shelf and dropped the eight-feet to the concrete floor, crouching to take the sting out of the impact. She hurried towards Taylor. "Cuff her!" she ordered, pulling her own restraints. Taylor blinked his pale blue eyes incuriously.

"Don't need to do that, Cassandra," he remarked, actually lifting Kim's limp body up so her beautiful head lolled gently against the eagle on his shoulder, cuddling her to him almost protectively. "She's not going to . . ."

Anderson ignored him, grabbing one dangling wrist and snapping a bracelet on, tightening the ratchet with unnecessary force. "Snap out of it!" she ordered sharply, slapping him across his face with her hand and his mind with her own. "You don't even _like_ girls," she added in a hissing whisper, more to remind than embarrass him.

Taylor jerked as she struck him, dropping Kim. Anderson went down on one knee as the gangboss' daughter hit the concrete. She grunted in pain, the stun round wearing off, as Anderson flipped her over. Slamming a knee into her back, she snapped the other cuff in place, shoving the beauty's face into the floor. "Thought as much," she hissed, probing against a mind tighter and more-toned than the gym-hard bubble-butt pressing against her boot. She jerked her to her feet and spun her face-to-face. "One more trick outta you," she warned, "and the next shot'll be into that pretty little head." Kim's hole-dark eyes were colder than the gaps between stars and didn't even waver. Anderson shoved her backwards – she stumbled into Taylor's arms. "Gun on her," she ordered. "If she so much as _twitches_, put her down."

Taylor grabbed Kim, clutching her tightly so she couldn't wriggle free. Anderson had done more than slap some sense into him – she'd blasted through the psionic fog the beautiful psi had filled his head with, temporarily imparting a preternatural clarity to his awareness. With that – not to mention the fact his natural inclinations tended towards something other than her honeytrap hourglass curves – she trusted him to resist Kim's charms, both normal and abnormal, more than any of the other Judges. He drew his lawgiver and jammed it under her ribs, the hand on her upper arm tightening and jerking her back as she twitched away from it. He shook his head, puzzled by his recent lack of focus.

"You can't do this!" exclaimed Calitri. He was a handsome, chunky man with a leonine mane of black hair slicked greasily back, a deep leathery tan and signs of obvious biosculpting. "I'm a legitimate businessman! This is harassment!" Daz sighed and shoved him towards Anderson. The psi understood – she caught the gangboss as he stumbled, hauling him upright and holding him in place even as she riffled through his mind.

"False bottoms in the crates there," she said, indicating the large fiberpress boxes with a flick of her chin. "Half a mil's worth of Colombian pure." Daz grunted in satisfaction and turned, flicking the shot-selector on her widowmaker to the beta magazine and blowing a hole in the base of a crate with a shotgun round. Glittering grains of white powder spilled on the floor. "You're gonna say you had no idea how the sugar got there, right?" Anderson said to Calitri.

"I am as shocked as you are!" he exclaimed. "I merely . . ." He got no further before Daz stepped forward and swung her shotgun, smashing him in the stomach with the butt. He collapsed to his knees at Anderson's feet, coughing and choking.

"Save it for your 'cubemates," she said dismissively. "Mitchel! Gomez!" she called. "Toss the office – get the records." She turned to Kim, looking the fashion-plate woman up and down with the curiosity of revulsion. "Your daddy's into smuggling and the black market," she said. "Jewelry smash-and-grabs seem clumsy – not his speed. But a pretty little thing like you wants her sparklies, right?" she taunted. "Daddy wouldn't give his princess enough toys? You played patty-cake with some of daddy's boys so they'd go shopping for you?" She shook her head. "You airhead bimbos make me sick."

Kim's expression didn't waver, her lovely eyes unreadable, her pursed pout revealing nothing. Anderson shook her head carefully, her psynses sparking off the gang-girl's formidable defenses. "That ain't it," she said slowly. "She's deeper in than that." Now Kim's head snapped towards Anderson, anger clear on her face. Anderson locked eyes with her, but spoke to Daz. "Transfer her to PsiDiv custody," she said firmly. Now she faced Daz. "I can get Council authorization within fifteen minutes if needed," she said – not threatening, not warning, just informing.

Reynolds shook his head, addressing his boss. "C'mon, Chief!" he complained. "She can't do that! Our raid, our op, our collar – cutie's ours." He actually shouldered his widowmaker and beckoned with an open hand. "Give her here, Taylor," the big man said. He looked at Daz. "I'll stick her in the catch-wagon, Chief," he offered.

Daz looked carefully at the psi-Judge. She shook her head. "Anderson's prisoner, Reynolds," she said slowly. "I want full intel, DivChief," she said meaningfully.

Anderson nodded. "You'll have it, SectCom," she promised.

At her feet, Calitri had recovered from his coughing fit and was struggling to his feet – neither Daz nor Anderson had missed that Kim seemed utterly unconcerned about her father's arrest or injury; she was smooth and cool as black ice. But now horror swept over her face and she struggled in Taylor's grasp. "No, daddy!" she shrieked. "It's not _worth_ it!"

Daz and Carter turned to look at Calitri – they saw he'd somehow got his hands out of the cuffs and was holding a heavy pistol. They each saw it leveled at them. Anderson saw exactly the same thing, but hers was a shimmering projection, a translucent image like a reflection in glass overlying the reality of him still cuffed and harmless. "_No!_" she cried, snatching for her lawgiver as both Daz and Carter aimed their shotguns at Calitri.

It was too late. They both fired. Carter's weapon was chambered with suppressor rounds – Calitri might have survived that – but Daz's buckshot round blew his throat out in a spray of blood. He pitched backwards, dead before he hit.

Anderson cleared her gun and, informed by her screaming psynses and without truly realizing she was doing it, pointed it at _Reynolds_. The idea Kim might have got to even her made her pause for an instant, sliding her finger off the trigger to lie alongside it – but then precognitive guilt washed over her as she realized her mistake. "No!" she yelled again, struggling to get her finger back on the trigger, as Reynolds swung his shotgun off his shoulder and – switching magazines – blasted Taylor in the head.

The shot knocked him off his feet, his limbs flailing limp and half his brain exiting his skull in a bloody geyser. "Bro . . . ?" he slurred, uncomprehending, as the light faded from his ice-blue eyes.

Anderson fired at the traitor, but Kim – suddenly freed by Reynolds' fratricide – lunged forward, knocking her arm with the soft-firmness of her buxom chest so the shot went wide. Anderson snarled and jabbed with her elbow, catching Kim in the throat and shoving her out of the way. She aimed at Reynolds once again – just as he shot her in the chest.

Her armor held against the buckshot, but she went staggering back, slipping in a puddle of gloopy gore on the floor and falling to one knee. She couldn't get air into her lungs and there were stars dancing in her vision, her chest constricted. She grit her teeth and snap-fired at Reynolds and Kim as they fled towards the back of the warehouse. The girl shrieked and stumbled, blood bursting from her shapely thigh, but Reynolds caught and dragged her around the corner and out of sight.

Daz dived for Anderson, hauling her upright. "Carter, take charge of the scene!" she ordered. Anderson pushed herself off the older woman, standing on her own and sucking air into her lungs. "Hamilton – stop Reynolds and the perp!" Daz set off after them at a run, Anderson at her heels. "She's psychic?" she asked. "She's controlling him?"

Anderson shook her head, still tasting the intention and connection she kicked herself for not noticing. "She's a psi," she said, "and she's got her claws in, but he's _dirty_. Transferred from 24 – now we know why!" She darted down a different aisle. "I'm getting my bike!" she shouted. "He's gonna rabbit!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it!" snarled Daz. There was a scuffle from the back of the warehouse, the roar of lawgivers, and then a door banged. Daz skidded around the corner an instant too late. "Oh, Rookie . . ." she moaned.

Anderson skidded to a halt, pulling up beside where Jordan was slumped on the floor, clutching at his abdomen. "I'm good, Ma'am," he gasped – Anderson could tell it was a lie; the dull pulse of pain his mind was screaming with could only come from a punctured kidney. Blood pumped between his fingers too fast and too freely. "Winged him, but . . . I'm sorry, Ma'am." He lifted his wrist and tapped his gauntlet against hers. "Key transfer," he ordered his lawscreen. He flicked his head. "My bike's outside – get the son of a spug." She ignored him, reaching for his medikit. He actually shoved her hands away. "I said _go_, Ma'am – I'll hold," he whispered, his eyes clouding. He fumbled for the kit himself, shaking and blood-slick fingers slipping on the leather.

Hamilton ran up behind them, drawing his own medikit and sinking to his knee next to his Rookie. "I've got him, Ma'am," he assured her. Daz nodded, leaping to her feet. "Don't die on me, kid," Hamilton muttered. "Corpses can't do the paperwork."

Daz dived outside and jumped onto Jordan's bike, firing the ignition and screaming off after the catch-wagon speeding onto the highway. Anderson roared through the door after her, glancing at the auxiliary lying on the pavement only long enough to confirm he was dead, killed by a headshot. From the blood-splatter, it was likely he'd been hauled out of the van, thrown to the ground and then coldly executed. She leaned into the fairing of her bike. "Anderson to Control," she said grimly. "Code triple-six. Repeat; code triple-six."

"_Confirm ident,_" ordered Control immediately. Anderson's lawscreen scanned and beeped affirmatively even as she spoke.

"Anderson, Cassandra J, PsiDiv," she snarled. She swept onto the highway, a bike-length behind Daz, blues-and-twos screaming and citizens' vehicles getting out of the way as fast as they could. "Code triple-six, Reynolds, sector 119. Trip-six aiding perp, fleeing scene. Anderson and Daz in pursuit."

"Triple-six confirmed, Judge Anderson," said the operator. "SJS informed – ETA is twenty-three minutes."

"Never there when you _need_ them!" Anderson muttered through gritted teeth. The catch-wagon was using its lights and sirens, too, cutting through the traffic with ease. The scattering cits were actually hindering the two pursuing lawmasters as they got out of the way of the trip-six's vehicle.

The operator was a consummate professional. "_Do you require backup, Judge Anderson?_" was all he asked.

"Am I likely to _get_ it?" she snarled sarcastically. She didn't wait for a response. "Negative, Control," she said. "_Negative_. Daz and I have got this – we're gonna show this dirty horndog what little girls are made of."

**A / n :** The reference to "sugar" as "Colombian pure" isn't a euphemism or police / underworld nickname for drugs – it refers to actual sugar. In the comics, sugar was a forbidden, contraband substance. There were lots of references to white power which turned out to be sugar – and completely illegal. I don't know why they did that – perhaps it was difficult to get a kid-friendly rating if you referenced actual drug use, and so sugar was a suitable expy. Today, of course, the "nanny state" tendency for governments to try to regulate sugar intake adds an extra level of humor and satire to it. Anyway – minor issue, just thrown in there for the comic fans.

"Code triple-six" is something I made up – obviously, it refers to a traitor Judge and is inspired by the Biblical "sign of the beast".

Throughout my writing, even though there are a lot of very beautiful female characters (and who are specifically described as beautiful in many cases) – Anderson, Quartermain, Hawkridge, even Harley to a certain degree – I've always shied away from particularly "dwelling" description of them. For Kim Calitri, I've gone quite heavy on that – in order to show she is obvious about her good-looks and also that she is pushing them into people's minds with her psi-powers.

Alright – you've read this far! I know people read my stories – and even read through the multi-chapter ones – but so few reviews? Do you have nothing to say about the stories you come to read? Review box is _right there_ – just tell me what you liked or didn't like. I promise I'll write back and will return the favor.


	3. Chase

**Prog 3 : Chase**

In the cab of the speeding catch-wagon, Kim clutched the muscle of her thigh, trying to staunch the bleeding. "What the drokk happened?" she demanded, her dark eyes kinked with pain and mascara-tracks of tears on her cheeks. "You were supposed to get there before the raid – let me get out the back!" She winced and doubled-over in pain. The lining of her skirt was soaked with blood, the cushion beneath her slick with it. "Are you gonna let me bleed out?" she screamed.

Reynolds grit his teeth in annoyance – he was wounded, bleeding from a shoulder wound, his arm already stiffening. He hadn't had time to tend to it, having to concentrate on driving. He'd expected this pretty little gang queen to be tougher than that – but, then again, weakness was inevitable in women. "Medikit under the seat," he said shortly. He glanced down at her, admiring the shapely sweep of her thighs in the indecently-short skirt even as he assessed her wound. "It's clean and through – biofoam'll hold it." He looked at the screens, watching the rear-facing camera's view. The two lawmasters were not only still there, but gradually gaining. Kim glared at him, feeling the bubbling puss of lust in his thoughts, but unable to do anything about it. She leaned forward, pulling the small box from under the seat. She cried out in pain as the cauterizing foam burned inside her quadriceps, sealing the wound. "It's not my fault," Reynolds told her. "Some heavy-bronze called Anderson turned up – suggested I ride in the tank with my chief. Sent someone else to watch the back."

"Yeah, well – it all went to Dok!" exclaimed Kim. "That bitch is a _psi_ – word on the street is she's heading up a mind-crimes squad. What's she doing raiding me, and sticking you where you can't help? How much does she know?"

"Oh, for Grud's sake!" exclaimed Reynolds. "It's bad luck, that's all."

Kim spun to face him, her pain clearing. "When psis are concerned," she snapped, "I don't believe in it!"

Reynolds snorted, rolling his eyes. "What are _you_ complaining about?" he asked. "You got what you want – your dad's dead, his men arrested. You can take over the gang, easy. _I'm_ the one who got made – because I was trying to save your ungrateful ass!"

"Yeah, _thanks_," she drawled sarcastically. "In case you hadn't noticed, I've got two Judges on it – that part of your plan? You're worried they made you? Maybe you should worry that means you're useless to me." She got no further before Reynolds drew his lawgiver and shoved it into her cleavage, the barrel slipping between her breasts.

"Maybe you should worry I could just shoot you and take my chances with the 'psi made me do it' defense," he growled. She gulped, but mastered herself quickly.

"Oh, baby!" she pouted. "I didn't mean it – you've done so well, been so clever!" She was pouring every ounce of her allure into her words, voice, movements and his mind. She could feel his anger subsiding, his resistance weakening, his desire swelling, eclipsing his reason, filling his thoughts with nothing but hungry _wanting_. She reached out with a tentative hand, caressing him suggestively. "You know it's you I care about," she breathed. "We're so _good_ together. You remember what it was like . . ." Her voice was a hypnotic purr, her mind lashing his with lascivious memories – hot, sweaty, grunting. She pushed the gun away from her – there was no resistance.

Reynolds was breathing heavily, hot beneath his uniform, his mind in a fog. "We've got to get to the mopad," he said. "Get there, you and me." It was obvious he was thinking of her boudoir in the vehicle, rather than the command center – but she was more practical. She looked at the rear-view camera – the bikes were closing.

"Get us there," she ordered. She pulled a GPS-nav out of her purse, activating it and hitting the green 'home' button. A red-lined route flashed on the map as she tossed it in his lap. "I'm gotta get these bitches so pissed they don't think," she said. "Gimme a gun."

Reynolds punched a code into the steering column. The gun-cage between the seats unlatched and popped open. Kim reached in and pulled out a carbine 'blockrocker' LSW and three mags, checking and loading the J-Dept exclusive weapon with disquieting expertise. Wincing as her thigh pained her, she started to swing herself out of the seat. Reynolds stopped her, grabbing the front of her blouse and pulling her towards him for a rough, lustful kiss. She let herself be manhandled, responding to him with future promise. He shoved her away. "Go get 'em, babe," he grunted.

Her coquettish smile was perfectly superficial, but he was too caught-up in driving and his desire to notice. She clambered into the rear of the catch-wagon, peering through the peephole in the door. The two Judges were close, a few car-lengths back, very few vehicles between them and her. In a few seconds, they'd be clear to use the bike cannons. "Not today, bitches," Kim muttered, fitting the barrel into the blow-out firing port. She flicked the shot-selector to full-auto and started blasting.

Anderson had an instant's warning thanks to her psynses, but Daz wasn't so lucky. A hornet-swarm of 9mm bullets roared from the back of the speeding van, muzzle-flash fluttering and stuttering. Gunfire bounced off her bike and armor, one errant bullet tearing a plate of her armor clear and gouging a shallow track in her upper arm. Other bullets shattered the windshield of a car in front of her, ripping into the engine block and blowing a tire out. The vehicle spun out, slamming into Daz's bike and throwing her off it in a pinwheel of limbs. She smashed into the side of a speeding van, crumpling the sheet metal panel and falling hard to the asphalt, rolling over and over until she came to rest in the middle of the road.

Vehicles zoomed past the stunned Judge, Anderson's bike one of them. Daz's mind was a battered jewel in her awareness, smoky like her eyes, the pain a dull ache. She was conscious but dazed, no bones broken. Anderson's attention was on the gang queen; she could taste Kim's mind – dark, rich, syrupy-sweet, layered like tiramisu – ahead of her. There were sharp spikes of pain in it, a queasy undertone of resigned revulsion. Her defenses were imperfect – distracted by having to balance and reload, not to mention the pain; the underworld psi lacked the Judge's training which turned such things into mere instinct.

Anderson zipped out from behind a citizen's car, the last one between her and the back of the catch-wagon. She had a split second to make her decision – in an instant, Kim would reload and blast again. Bike cannons wouldn't penetrate the riot-armored J-Dept van, but they would shred the tires and rear transmission. At these speeds, the van would likely flip – battering the unanchored Kim to hash topped with the scrambled egg of her brain at best, and causing a multi-vehicle RTA at worst. _Not_ an option Anderson wanted to take.

"Armor piercing," she ordered, snapping the thumb-break open. She drew and fired the lawgiver in a single smooth motion; precise shots two feet below where her psynses told her Kim's mind was. The hardened-steel penetrators of the bullets punctured the catch-wagon's armor as if it were paper. Behind it, the coffee-and-cocoa layers flared with bright spikes of agony – gut shots, had to be. Kim's mental defenses crumpled as she did and Anderson snatched a glimpse inside, leaving something there, before they snapped back up. She smiled grimly and wrenched the bike around, speeding back to where Daz was getting up, clutching at her shoulder.

"Get after him, damnit!" the senior Judge exclaimed. "Forget me – don't lose them!" Anderson shook her head, reaching out and jerking Daz onto the back of her bike.

"They're going to her base of operations!" she shouted over the wind whipping past. "She's been planning a takeover of the family business for _months_, building up her power-base behind daddy's back. Reynolds was supposed to warn her the raid was coming, make sure she got out and her dad ended up dead. I want this pysker-bitch _alive_." She bit down. "Control, Anderson and Daz in pursuit of trip-six, to perp's HQ. Status on backup?"

"_Backup was not requested prior, Judge Anderson,_" the operator's voice reminded her politely.

Anderson ground her teeth. "Situation has _changed_, Control," she said tightly. "Requesting backup _now_. Status and ETA of backup and SJS units?" There was a pause, the noise of clicking keys and processing computers in the background.

"_Backup unavailable at this time, Judge Anderson,_" the operator advised. "_SJS reports ETA is . . . now thirty-two minutes._" He sounded almost as if he thought he should sound apologetic.

"That is not how temporal progression _works_, Control!" snapped Anderson. She rolled her neck and leaned forward, eking a couple more MPH out of her bike. "Whatever. Track my GPS, send backup _when available_. Hopefully, I won't have to wait for it to graduate from the Academy," she added acidly.

oOo

Kim clutched at her abdomen, sobbing as she crawled towards the front of the van, leaving a trail of blood as she went. "How far to the mopad?" she screamed. "Grud, this _hurts!_" In the driver's seat, Reynolds turned to look at her, assessing her wounds with an expert eye.

She wasn't about to die; not quickly, anyway – he'd seen enough slidewalkers shot in the belly to know that, and only AP bullets would penetrate a catch-wagon's armor so easily; they'd cut an almost-surgical path through her guts. She might not be wearing a two-piece swimsuit for a while, but she'd live. "Hang on, babe!" he cried. "Nearly there! And then we're home free, baby – home free!" He glanced at the rear-view camera – he couldn't see the pursuing lawmasters.

"How close are we?" coughed Kim. Reynolds glanced at the nav-unit in his lap.

"Mile and eight tenths," he shouted back. "Be there in a _minute_, babe – just hang on!" He wrenched the wheel, sideswiping a car with the heavy van, crushing the lighter vehicle against the barrier. The catch-wagon bucked and jumped, throwing Kim around with cries of pain, as it turned off the elevated highway towards the slower-moving megaboulevard below. Behind him, the wrecked car sprang off the barrier and spun into the center of the exit ramp, jerking forward when a car T-boned it with a ringing crash. More vehicles hit what very-quickly became a multi-car pileup. Reynolds grinned with satisfaction and settled more comfortably into the seat – _good luck getting past that, you heavy-bronze bitches_, he thought. Girls couldn't drive for spug, anyway.

oOo

Anderson screamed past the highway turn-off with barely a glance. "Control, multi-car RTA west-bound junction 34-119-81 exit ramp. Medi- and meat-wagons required," she reported as she zoomed past.

"_You are the nearest unit, Judge Anderson,_" Control reminded her without a hint of irony.

"_Little_ busy right now, Control," Anderson said angrily.

"_Only units available to respond are your backup, Judge Anderson,_" said Control.

"Of _course_ they are," she murmured. She sighed. "Send 'em – Daz and I have this; Anderson out."

Daz shifted behind Anderson, fumbling to tend to her wound. "You don't even know where they're going!" she shouted.

"No," admitted Anderson, "I don't – but I know where they are and how they're getting there." She tapped her temple with a fingertip. "Psionic tracker planted in her head – until she digs it out, and I'm guessing she's a _little_ distracted with the belly-wound right now, I can sense her from half a sector away. They're on Lambert megaboulevard, heading north. Hang on!" Anderson wrenched the steering column and the bike peeled to the left, exiting the highway and accelerating along Lambert's elevated service drive. She lifted an arm and pointed. "See 'em?" she asked.

Daz nodded, drawing her pistol. Her lawgiver cracked once, twice, but it was no good. "Range and speed are too much," she said. "Can we get on the megaboulevard?" Anderson shook her head.

"We follow them to their base!" she yelled. "Take 'em out."

"_Alone_?" exclaimed Daz. "Where's your backup?"

"I just picked her up off the road when her bike got trashed," Anderson said dryly. The service-drive was lightly used – she was not careening wildly along, instead pacing the catch-wagon a quarter-mile back, hiding behind other vehicles. "You getting cold feet, Daz?" she taunted. "You want I should let you off?"

"You were Dredd's rookie, right?" Daz asked. Anderson laughed.

"Yeah," she chuckled. "Does it show?"

oOo

"Blondie's still on our tail!" shouted Reynolds. The friend-or-foe transponder showed Anderson's bike above and to the rear. "She's on the service-drive – she'll never catch us before we reach the mopad; no ramps for a mile." He glanced into the back – Kim had managed to get to her knees, one hand pressed to her waist, her weight on her uninjured leg. "We're right there, babe," he assured her, "but I don't know what we're going to do once . . ."

"Just get us aboard!" snapped Kim. "You're not good at thinking – leave that to me!" Reynolds glared at her, but turned back to concentrate on driving. He brought the speeding van towards the rear of the massive vehicle, driving gingerly up the ramp it lowered and through the opening doors into the garage. Behind him, the doors closed and the ramp lifted as he cut off the engine and jumped out of the cab.

He almost collided with Omari, one of Giuseppe Calitri's made-men enforcers, and Kim's bodyguard and right-hand. "What you doin' here, J-man?" he asked, his eyes glittering in his dark face as much as his ostentatious jewelery. Reynolds ignored him, shoving past him to the rear doors of the catch-wagon and wrenching them open. Kim struggled out, the two men almost fighting over who got to help her. "You let my babe get all banged up?" asked Omari, angrily.

Reynolds squared up to him, his hand falling to his lawgiver. "_Your_ babe, creep?" he asked.

Kim didn't need this spug – not right now. "Shut up!" she snapped, enforcing her will with a stab of psychic power. "Both of you! There's enough of me to go around. Omari, tell the bridge – full spectrum jamming, _now_!" She put a hand against her temple, feeling inside herself for the psychic tracker she'd practically _goaded_ the Judge into planting in her head and reaching along the connection to suggest. "Oh, yes, Cassandra," she whispered, "you know just where I am – come and dig me out!"

oOo

On the service-drive above Lambert, Anderson saw the catch-wagon drive into the luxury mobile home. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "It's a _mopad!_" She bit down to activate her radio. "Control!" she snapped, "Trip-six and psi-perp are at their base of operations. It's a . . ."

She got no further before a ungrudly squeal of discordant noise filled her ears, making her wince and nearly lose control of the bike. She bit down, cutting the circuit. Her visor's HUD was running with red – 'DB DISCONNECTED', 'OUT OF CONTACT', 'SIGNAL LOST' repeated time and again. 'RETRYING IN 5, 4, 3 . . .' Angrily, she canceled the attempt. She didn't need all that tech-spug – she had something far better.

At these ranges, the psionic bug was a bright signal in her awareness, unmistakable, beckoning, tempting. "They're aboard," Anderson shouted. She gripped the handlebars tighter and braced herself. "Hang on!" she yelled.

Daz immediately realized what the crazy psi was about to do. "It's a _trap!_" she yelled. "Don't you see that?"

It was too late – Anderson had already twisted the throttle and hit the turbo boost. "Maybe?" she lied, realizing Kim deserved more respect than she'd given her. There was no time to waste regretting errors – she was committed now. She triggered the cannons, blowing the safety railings away. The bike sailed off the elevated service-drive in a glorious arc, dropping towards the dorsal windows of the mopad like a particularly stylish stone.

**A/n :** Action and adventure! I am writing these chapters as fairly short things (less than 3000 words each – which in my world is short) dealing with a short incident. Basically, like the comicbook progs. Might do it differently for other stories – maybe following more of a TV or movie pattern.

The SA85 'blockrocker' LSW is an invented weapon – it is based on the idea of the light support weapon, or section / squad automatic weapon. You can find information about the idea on Wikipedia. Basically, it is a weapon used to give military squads a source of portable automatic firepower – often, it is a variant of the standard rifle carried by the members of the squad. As a quasi-military police force, I thought the Judges would have such a thing. They don't carry rifles (rifles are not suitable for day-to-day law enforcement in an urban area), so the 'blockrocker' is envisaged as a rapid-firing machine pistol / submachine gun (likely similar to the H&amp;K MP5). A common practice for LSWs is for them to chamber the same round as the standard weapon carried by members of the squad (to simplify logistics issues) – hence the blockrocker using 9mm rounds (which the movie lawgiver uses – being based on a Glock 9mm). The blockrocker doesn't have the same ID check the lawgiver (and presumably widowmaker) do, because it isn't assigned to a single user – it is part of a catch-wagon's support hardware. Minor little detail, just to add some detail to the world.

Ok, you've read this far – three chapters! I see the stats; lots of people read the first chapter and fewer read the rest of 'em. I get that – people try a story out, decide it's not for them. But the 2nd and onwards chapters always have about the same number of views as each other – so people ARE reading the full stories. But so few reviews? Please – take a minute and tell me what you like, what you didn't like, what you'd like to see more of. I know I have an audience – I'd _love_ to be able to write stuff people enjoy! Just write what you thought and submit the review :)


	4. Mopad

**Prog 4 : Mopad**

With a population of eight-hundred-million people – estimated, because a meaningful census was all-but-impossible in a city in a constant state of flux and undeclared-war, with entire hab-blocks practically off-limits for civic authority – Mega City One was the largest single population of human beings in the history of humanity. The mega structures of the new world, imposed on and within the rotting structures of the old, were a necessary evil to sustain such a population. Megablocks, megahighways, Mega City One.

But even given the gigantic scale of Mega City One – hab-blocks hundreds of stories tall housing tens of thousands of people, stretching from Boston to Washington – a population of eight-hundred-million people meant the city was overcrowded, overpopulated, stretched to breaking point.

There were various solutions to the severe housing shortage. Slums and shantytowns, vagrancy and living in the undercity, not to mention committing some inconsequential crime to get time in an iso-cube with its three dehyds and an inside, were ones the Justice Department disapproved of. Caravans into the Cursed Earth were invariably 'regrettably approved', with official _recommendation_ only reserved because of the look of the thing.

The Judges didn't like people 'living on the streets' when it was an euphemism, but actually encouraged – with tax-credits and subsidized pricing for welfare recipients – the literal thing. J-Dept estimated over eighteen-million people were forced (or chose) to live in mobile homes, or _mopads_, permanently on the move along the city's millions of miles of roads. The majority were small, single-bedroom dwellings – not much larger than a van or truck, little more than a bed and some chairs with a very basic kitchen and washroom set-up in the back of the vehicle. But others were larger – family dwellings, spacious bachelor pads, even workshops and shops for citizens who fancied plying a nomadic trade on the highways.

The largest mopads were so big they could not travel safely – or legally – on the main roads and highway network of Mega City One. Rather, they were restricted to the especially broad megaboulevards which ran throughout the city, moving without human intervention under AutoDrive along the elegant, lamp-lined streets. Their inhabitants used smaller vehicles (which could easily be accommodated within internal garages) to shuttle between their mopads and destinations off the megaboulevards.

These mobile mansions were luxurious as a five-star hotel, perhaps more so because their furnishings were tailored to their owners' whims. With décor as sumptuous as any palace – antique realwood reclaimed from pre-war buildings, ultrachrome fittings and fauxmarble floors, synthisilk drapes and carpets, and the very latest in recreational technology – they were the preferred homes of many of Mega City One's richest. And, of course, that included criminals – for whom a mobile base of operations was all-too-valuable.

The mopad Anderson and Daz were plunging towards was a Royale, one of the very largest and most expensive. Fifty yards long, four stories tall, three lanes wide, it ran on dozens of tires organized into six separate tractor blocks, each with independent suspension and transmission. It had panoramic windows on all sides, most veiled with closed drapes or shades, and a great curve of glass at the front for the bridge. Towards the front, the dorsal surface was solid – except for a sunroof or skylight here and there – with a railing running around the edge, a few pieces of patio furniture magnetized in place under umbrellas and awnings. Behind this sun-deck there was a broad expanse of glass, a domed greenhouse over an indoor pool. The glass could be rolled back, to open the water to the sky and allow people to dive from the deck to to the deep-end below, but – right now – the pool was enclosed.

"Crack it!" yelled Anderson. "I'll be hardened!" Daz nodded and understood.

"Armor piercing!" she ordered, drawing her lawgiver and triple-tapping the largest window. The bullets hit and penetrated, punching neat holes with little spidering in the glass. The falling of the bike and the movement of the mopad didn't make it easy, but she managed to get at least another two or three shots within a twelve-inch circle.

"HiEx!" snapped Anderson. The shell detonated against the window with a black-edged actinic fireball, cracks spreading from Daz's holes, crazing creeping over the glass. Anderson hit the bike cannon as the lawmaster plunged right into the explosion, firing into the armorglass. The heavy-caliber bullets didn't smash the window, but it gave way with a implosion of shattering crystal when the weight of the bike hit it like a battering ram. It fell through and splashed into the pool below, the heavy bike and the armored Judges sinking like stones.

Anderson stood on the saddle of the bike as it sank, keeping her head and shoulders above the water as the tires settled on the floor of the pool. She lifted her pistol and fired twice; two well-muscled and handsome young men in indecently-small and excessively-tight swimming briefs collapsed before they could get their hands on the guns beside their chairs. She didn't even look behind her, simply pointing her pistol over her shoulder and letting her psynses do the work. She fired once and a body splashed into the water.

Daz was more practical – she let herself sink, fitting her respirator. The inbuilt rebreather and lox cartridges would give her twenty-minutes or more of breatheable air. Moving slowly in the water she got off the bike and knelt on the floor of the pool, the weight of her equipment more than counteracting the buoyancy of her body. She pulled a shaped charge from her belt, snapping the chemfuse to activate it and slapping it in place on the tiles.

"Fire in the hole," she said – her voice was muffled behind the respirator, but the built-in mic let Anderson hear her. "Brace for shockwave." Anderson didn't respond, but she heard the psi forcibly empty her lungs as she did the same.

The explosive was precisely shaped, a breaching charge designed to cut through armored hinges, locks and latches. The majority of the force was directed into forming the copper penetrator into a hyperplastic wave, with little undesired blowback to the sides or rear. In an atmosphere environment, the distances involved would have meant no threat to the Judges. In the denser medium of the water, the shockwave could be dangerous.

But neither Daz nor Anderson joined the Judges for ease and comfort.

The explosive detonated, rocking Anderson and Daz in the water with a brutal blow they felt in their lungs, guts and the airspaces in their heads. A jet of deforming metal punched through the tile and plasteen liner of the pool, tearing a foot-wide hole in the floor. As if the plug had been pulled on a bath, water gushed through in a constant, heavy column, flooding the room below.

oOo

In the garage directly below the pool, Kim grinned at the shattering of glass and the screams of her boytoys above. Their minds had never been particularly bright to her psynses – she'd enjoyed them for far more visceral reasons than anything they had above their collars – but those dim candles faded to nothing as they died. They'd done their job, their deaths serving as an alarm the Judges were inside the mopad. "Gotcha!" she snarled.

His hand around her waist, holding her upright and a little-closer than was really needed, Reynolds looked worried. "They're on board!" he exclaimed. He glared at Omari. "Get her to the bridge!" he ordered. "If anything happens to her . . ."

Omari didn't look impressed, the sculpted planes of his handsome face impassive as an obsidian statue. Reynolds almost-shoved Kim into his grasp, the gang-queen gasping in pain, and he took charge of her with surprising gentleness. Reynolds drew his lawgiver, stepping back into the body of the garage from where the three of them had been standing near the door in the forward bulkhead. Kim snarled in frustration at his obtuseness.

"That's the idea!" she exclaimed. At that instant, the ceiling of the garage fountained downwards with a foaming jet of water, shattered tile and plasteen, and boiling hi-ex exhaust gasses. Reynolds lifted his arm to shield himself from it, getting knocked over and onto his behind by the shockwave and water flooding the garage. He lifted his gun and pointed it wildly upwards, firing blindly. Omari drew his own weapon – a fancifully-gilded and jeweled hand-cannon with cameo miniatures of Kim's and his face on the butt plates – but Kim shook her head. She grabbed the commlink from him. "Judges inside!" she snarled. "Lock it down! War protocol!"

On the bridge, an emergency button was slammed. All over the mopad – in narrow corridors, in bedrooms, in washrooms, in the dining room, in offices and the home-theater – the lights dimmed and warning klaxons sounded. Every closed door locked gas-tight, and some of the open doors slid shut and sealed themselves. At every one of the massive windows, articulated armored shutters started to clank over the glass like growing frost.

oOo

Around Anderson the water was draining, the level dropping about half-an-inch every second. Both she and Daz had attended Kelso's math classes at the Academy, but neither of them had retained enough to precisely calculate just _how_ quickly the pool would drain. Beneath her, Daz decided _not quickly enough_ was a close-enough calculation for J-Dept work. She drew her pistol and put systematic AP shots around the hole; lawgivers were waterproof to depths far greater than a mopad pool and it fired without difficulty. Chunks of tile and liner fell away, widening the hole and increasing the speed of drainage. The flowing water pulled at them, tugging them towards the hole like rubber ducks left in the bath.

Return fire punched through the floor of the pool, leaving little lines of bubbles in their wake. After going through plasteen and tile, the bullets didn't have enough energy left to even reach the surface of the water – they slowed and floundered, being pulled towards the drain as they sank. Anderson switched to armor piercing rounds and aimed downwards, reaching out with her psynses to locate the shooter.

The image in her mind's eye was blurred, as if seen through frosted windows or the wrong-prescription glasses, a molasses-smeared vision of Reynolds lying on his back in swirling water, firing upwards. Anderson knew the source of the interference – Kim's psychic powers – but that didn't make it any easier to break through. She took a couple of shots, but it was fruitless – the pull of the draining pool, the muffing effect of the water and the gang-queen's obfuscation all conspired to make her shots fly wide. "Reynolds is underneath us!" she yelled.

Above her, the light coming through the windows faded as the armored shutters closed over them, sealing them inside the mopad. As she twisted to look, the lawmaster shifted under her feet. She slipped off the seat, splashing into the water and sinking to the floor to lie on her side. Instinctively she gasped, drawing in a lungful of water and making herself cough and choke.

With an effort of will, she clamped her mouth shut and pinched her nose, struggling to get her head above water. She had just managed it, coughing and spluttering, when the pool floor beneath her groaned and the over-stressed plasteen gave way with a creaking crash of shattered tile and rushing water.

oOo

Omari supported Kim against the jamb of the door, his other hand on the button keeping it open against the war protocols. She had one hand against her temple, her forehead screwed up with concentration. "She's _good_ . . ." she muttered. "Very . . . very . . . _owww!_" She snatched her hand away, hissing in pain. "Very good," she said shortly.

The garage was flooding, the water gushing from the hole in the ceiling above, a foot deep on the floor and rising. Reynolds was struggling to his feet, bullets from above missing him by inches. "Do we need him?" asked Omari. Kim shrugged.

"He's got some dirt on us," she pointed out. "And if they make him talk . . ." Omari nodded and leveled his gaudy gun at the Judge. Reynolds saw in time and pointed his own weapon at the enforcer.

"No!" cried Kim – she didn't want to lose either of the men yet, although it was inevitable one of them would have to go. Anyone thinking with something above his waistline would realize she'd _have_ to burn Reynolds, even _if_ Omari were out of the picture. The Judge was too caught-up in dreams of sultry romance with her to realize he was surplus to requirements. She stepped between the men, holding her hand out to Reynolds. He took it, but with her wounds she didn't have the strength to pull him through the now thigh-deep water. "Help me!" she ordered Omari verbally, pulsing _he can be useful to us_ directly into his mind.

Omari smiled and holstered his gun, reaching out and grabbing Reynolds' wrist and pulling the stocky man through the opening. Once the three of them were safely inside, he took his hand off the button and the door slammed shut, firmly sealing itself. Just as he did so, there was a ringing, splashing crash from the other side and flotsam and jetsam slammed heavily against the door.

oOo

Anderson and Daz tumbled in the rush of water and wreckage, crashing down onto the catch-wagon and bouncing off to land in the water below. They were bruised and battered beneath their waterlogged uniforms, their armor plates dented and scratched. The water would have been thigh-deep for Reynolds – for the smaller female Judges, it was up to their ribs. Anderson struggled to her feet, grabbing Daz under the arm and hauling her upright. Her lawmaster was lying in a tangled heap under the water, fuel from the cracked tank bubbling up to make an oily sheen on the surface. The catch-wagon was crushed beneath the ruin of the garage ceiling, a waterfall cascading off the sides as the pool emptied.

"Stomm," said Daz with feeling, wincing as she rotated her shoulder. Her helmet was dented, her lip split and bloodied. She lifted her gun and checked it – the action cycled easily and the report on the screen was clear. Anderson grit her teeth and swallowed the nausea from an impending migraine, calculating just how soon she could safely take another painkiller. She fished around beneath her, pulling her widowmaker clear of the wreckage of her bike. She tilted it so water cascaded from the barrel. Behind her, Daz retrieved the blockrocker's spare mags from the back of the van.

"Yeah," said Anderson with feeling. She glanced at her gauntlet screen – whether because of jamming or the mopad being sealed, it was disconnected from the J-Dept DBs and all communications networks. She nodded, more to herself than anything else. "Hmm."

"Mopad's on lockdown?" said Daz. It wasn't quite a question. Anderson nodded.

"War protocols," she said. "ABC sealed and self-sufficient – direct hit with a HEAP round'll crack it, but anything short of mil-grade'll just bounce off. The rich _do_ like their privacy and apocalypse insurance," she added with a grin.

"You're taking this surprisingly well," Daz said with barely-controlled annoyance. "This vehicle is _mobile_, Control has no idea we are aboard and no reason to track or suspect it. We can't get a signal out or any back-up in. Calitri _tricked you_ into following her – it was a trap." Anderson nodded.

"So I sprang it," she said shortly. "The other option was to let her get away – or attempt to take out a fortified mopad on lockdown without killing everyone inside. I need Kim alive, for my MediTeks to peel open – she's a powerful psi, and I want to know how she was missed and who trained her." Daz didn't look convinced – Anderson could tell she thought the psi was rationalizing her error; Anderson couldn't be entirely certain she actually _wasn't_. "Anyway," she added, moving as quickly as she could towards the door, the gun held over her head, shoving through the water with her chest, "this ain't new for me. I did this my first day as a Judge, just in a bigger cage."

Daz followed her. The pool had emptied completely, so the water wasn't rising – but with the mopad sealed against atomic, biological and chemical attack it was air- and watertight, so it wasn't draining either. The big vehicle had good suspension and the megaboulevards were smooth and well-maintained – and it was guaranteed the driver wasn't speeding or otherwise risking attracting attention – but even with that the water sloshed from side to side, pulling at her with slow, powerful currents. "The rad-rat in there with you then this crazy?" she asked. Anderson slapped breaching charges on the hinges and latch of the door, slaving the electronic fuses to her gauntlet. She glanced up from her work and raised an eyebrow at Daz.

"Are you asking me to compare you to Dredd, or Ma-Ma to Kim?" she asked with a perfectly straight face.

Daz didn't respond to the barb. "Calitri's gonna have a drokking _army_ behind that door," she said.

"Less perps in here than out in the city," Anderson said reasonably. She lifted the shotgun and made a careful show of checking the action. "Odds just keep on getting better with every shot you take."

Daz shucked the magazine from her lawgiver and slammed one of the blockrocker's home. The LSW not only chambered the same rounds as the Judicial sidearm, but the magazines were interchangeable. Set to rapid fire, the 9mm pistol would function just as effectively as the carbine submachine gun, especially in the close confines of the mopad. "And what about Reynolds?" she asked. "You pissed him off, messed up his plan – he's gonna be itching to take a crack at you."

"Oh," said Anderson meaningfully, "if he wants a fight, well – now he's got one." Daz bit her tongue and quickly counted to ten.

"He might be a sexist pig," she reminded Anderson, "but he's still a Judge – he's no slouch."

Anderson sighed and leaned against the wall next to the door. "So what do you suggest, Daz?" she asked. "We play water babies and hope the boys from SJS arrive to save us before Kim drops enough grenades down here to turn us into Judge-stew?" Anderson shook her head. "Not my plan. I pacified a block and killed two Judges on my assessment – Reynolds and the rest of those bullies kissing Kim Calitri's bubble-butt ass don't scare me."

Daz glowered at the younger woman, no longer admiring the moxie but rather disgusted by the arrogance, the cocksuredness, the know-it-all attitude that was to be expected from Dredd's precious Rookies and green-helmets who'd bronze-polished their way up the ranks. "Who the drokk do you think you are, Anderson?" she snarled.

The psi-Judge shrugged. "You know," she remarked evenly, "I ask myself that question every single day. And then I remember – I'm Cassandra Jane Anderson. I'm a Judge of Mega City One, without fear, favor, affection, or ill-will. I enforce The Law, I flash the bronze. I suggest you do the same because" she hit a control on her gauntlet screen "fire in the hole in five, four, three . . ." Anderson smiled, taking a firm grip of her shotgun as Daz nodded and squared her shoulders, sighting down the barrel of her lawgiver at the soon-to-be-breached door.

It would have been easy to assume her headgames were played with psychic powers, but – when it came to Judges – old-fashioned emotional manipulation usually worked _just_ as well.

**A/n :** The more "Dredd" I write, the more I find that the math of the city just doesn't add up to my satisfaction – the opening passage about the scale of the city just doesn't jive with the various sources in the movie and the comics, nor reality and possibility! I've tried to (in several stories) take the 'canon' numbers and make them work – but I really don't think that is possible. So, the end result is a lot of numbers which don't match up . . . and the impression of "DIS REEL BIG CITY! DIS REEL BAD CITY!" Which I suppose is all that is really needed!

If you like this, then please say so with a review. I know people read the stories – I see the stats – and I want to write stories people like. So, please tell me what sort of things you like – psi-crimes and misdemeanors? High-level intrigue? Violence and gunplay? Fluffy family stories? Silly crazy stuff?

Just let me know – I've got ideas for all of that and more, and I want to write things people like to read!


	5. Zombie

**Prog 5 : Zombie**

The explosions cut the door from its hinges, throwing it down the corridor, a rushing tide of water and a hail of bullets following after it. The two men Kim had left to guard the door died instantly, one chewed to ribbons by the staccato bark of Daz's lawgiver, the other crashing backwards with a fist-sized hole in his sternum from Anderson's widowmaker.

The water flooded forward and hit the bulkheads and sealed doors, sloshing backwards. The two Judges waded through it, stern behind the gun barrels, weapons held high and tight against their shoulders. Daz whipped around a corner and let off a short burst. Another ganger cried out and crashed into the water, floating towards her. "Clear!" she called as his corpse bobbed against her thighs.

Anderson poked her shotgun and then her head around another corner – it dead-ended in a locked door marked 'ENGINE ROOM'. "Clear," she said. She lifted a viscosity ordinance from her belt and slapped it against the handle, arming the fuse and stepping back as it detonated with a _gloop!_ "And secured," she added.

Daz splashed past her to the end of the corridor. There was a simple button next to a sliding door – a lighted triangle pointing upwards – and a digital counter above. As she looked, the number flicked from _2_ to _3_ and then _4_. "Elevator," she said unnecessarily. Anderson turned and nodded.

"Kim and her boytoys must've taken it to the bridge," the psi agreed. She pulled another glue grenade and sealed that door too. "Let's find the stairs," she said. An elevator was not only a deathtrap – in enemy-controlled territory, it was basically nothing more than a iso-cube with cruel-and-unusual punishment in the form of muzak – but also a way enemies could come at them from behind. If they needed access, solvents would dissolve the air-hardening epoxy in seconds.

Daz nodded and turned around, shoving past the corpses gradually sinking as bullet holes filled their lungs with water. There was a short corridor around the corner she'd checked and cleared, with a door labeled 'STAIRS' in the wall. With the extended mag in place she couldn't holster her lawgiver so she secured it to the electromagnets on her carapace armor. Drawing and deploying her daystick silently, she reached out and jiggled the handle.

The roar of gunfire that chewed through the panel and into the wall beyond, splashing into the water, brought Anderson running. Daz stopped her with a raised hand. "Looks like they've got the stairway guarded," she said grimly.

Anderson nodded and used the widowmaker's ejection port to individually chamber a breaching round. "Wanna play ping pong?" she asked with a grin.

Daz smiled and crouched, stowing her daystick and drawing her bootknife and lawgiver. "Paddle up," she murmured, jabbing the point of the blade into the junction of the door and readying her pistol. Above her, Anderson pointed the shotgun at the locking mechanism. "Ricochet," Daz ordered quietly, and her lawgiver cycled obediently.

"In three, two, one . . ." said Anderson, and fired. The sintered metal slug tore through the locking mechanism and disintegrated into a harmless burst of powder beyond the door. Daz levered with her knife, swinging the door open three inches. Automatic fire tore through it again, a couple of bullets pinging harmlessly from her armor as they bounced off the wall, their kinetic energy lost.

Daz fired three times, shifting her gun minutely between each shot. Her bullets – the rubber-titanium amalgam 'dodgem' rounds – bounced from wall to wall up the narrow stairwell, perhaps pinging off the treads and risers to deflect from the ceiling. At least one must have found a soft target before its energy was expended; there was a cry from above and then a perp tumbled loose-limbed down the stairs to slump against the door, forcing it further open.

Anderson stepped forward, putting her boot on his gun hand and pointing her weapon upwards. The stairway mocked her precautions, yawning empty over her shotgun barrel. She stepped over the gurgling ganger – he'd been shot in the chest, the bullet penetrating deep enough to suck, and his head had slipped beneath the water – and advanced up the stairs, a litter of expended brass tinkling around her boots as she climbed out of the flood. Behind her, Daz drove her bootknife up under the perp's chin and into his brain with a single practiced move – a mercy-killing, or perhaps just securing their rear. She washed the blade clean and followed Anderson up the stairs.

The psi paused at the top of the stairs, seeing a blinking red light above her. She cocked her head and gazed into the camera lens. "Can't hide behind your boys forever, Kim," she said sweetly. "Give yourself up, hand over your boyfriend and I'll try not to kill _too_ many studs in your stable, deal?"

oOo

On the bridge, Kim watched the video feed calmly. A sophisticated medi-bot was clamped around her waist – the hard-nosed rounds had gone clean-and-through. Microscopic manipulators were reaching inside her abdomen to repair the damage, hypodermic needles disinfecting and mono-molecular probes anesthetizing. Her thigh wound was under control – biosculpting would ensure her days-long and gorgeous legs weren't marred with a scar. But that would have to wait for later – right now, she had a _pest control_ problem.

There was no audio on the feed – the security system was cameras, not microphones – but Anderson clearly knew that and had lowered her shields, deliberately broadcasting her words to goad Kim into a mistake. The gang-queen shook her head as the psi-Judge's voice echoed in it. Psynsed rather than heard, the law-woman was impressive – powerful without being strident, threatening without desperation. For an instant, doubt brushed against Kim's skin – she suppressed the thought before Anderson could pick up on it. It was all going according to plan – the Judges were inside, cut off, isolated, out of contact. The mopad was the perfect Judge trap.

Only the most foolish or inexperienced of Mega City One's perps thought a Judge was a soft target, an easy takedown (of course, the foot soldiers of the gangs were almost exclusively that foolish or inexperienced, ensuring a constant stream of confrontation for the thin black-and-bronze line). Even a Rookie had fifteen years of hard training – much of it not-only under live-fire, but actually in the field – and much of the Academy's education was geared towards survival. _You can't adjudicate if you can't respirate_ was an oft-repeated mantra, drilled into Cadets with the force of a hydraulic ram. Judges were hard to beat, harder to take-out, almost impossible to kill.

Kim's plan did not rely on challenging this conventional wisdom. Rather, she relied on it. She knew the two Judges – _three_, she reminded herself with a glance over at the glowering Reynolds – were more than capable of pacifying the sealed mopad, even given the men and materiel her _father_ had on it. And that was the key to the whole thing.

"Two little _bitches_ are killing my men!" she snapped. She actually stomped her foot. "Can't you _do_ something?" she yelled at Omari. "Two _girls_ and the men you train are _useless_? What the drokk do I _pay_ you for?" She folded her arms and stuck her nose in the air. "_Daddy_ wouldn't let this happen to me," she sniffed.

Unlike Kim – who'd actually been in a couple of vid-serial vanity projects paid for by her father (one opposite Conrad Conn himself; although the jury was still out on whether or not that had just been an excuse for him to do the bedroom scene with her) – Omari was a terrible actor. She cut him off with a raised hand before he could speak. "Don't!" she snapped. She sighed and slumped her shoulders. "It's all going _wrong!_" she moaned.

Reynolds stepped forward, reloading and checking his lawgiver. He laid a hand comfortingly on her arm. "Don't worry, babe," he assured her. "I got this." He glanced at Omari, smiling triumphantly at the flamboyant perp as Kim lifted her head and gave a watery-smile. "I'll take care of my little girl just like daddy did," he said.

She managed to beam. "Really?" she gasped. "You will? You'll kill them?" He nodded. "Oh, you're just the _best!_" she exclaimed, flinging herself forward and kissing him, sliding her tongue into his mouth and the tentacles of her mind through his. He was completely open and vulnerable to her manipulation, his intention already to obey her, to do what she wanted. She tightened her psyche's grip on his, grabbing his head with her hands as he stiffened and tried to jerk away. "Oh, no . . ." she whispered. "Just let it go – don't fight it. It's not like you _need_ your mind to serve me, and you _do_ want to serve me, don't you?" she purred.

He was fighting her now, struggling to keep her out of his thoughts, his very personality – but she was knew all his secrets, all his desires, all his weaknesses. She was inside him, in through the little doors and windows he'd shown her and she'd widened through both mental and physical gymnastics, tangled in sweaty sheets. There had been pleasure then, but no pleasure now – although there was no pain, either – as she riffled through his identity and systematically destroyed it, burning his personality and memories to ash and then scattering the dust on the scouring wind that blew through the empty spaces in his head.

She shoved him back – he swayed, but did not fall. He stood upright, his hands hanging at his sides, his face in slack repose. She'd left him with his autonomic functions and motor control, the bulk of his Judicial training still in place along with problem-solving intelligence. But his will and self was gone. She smiled, moving over to Omari and passionately kissing him. Reynolds – or what was left of him – didn't react. He was a dim glow in her psynses, larger but barely-brighter than a dog. He'd known too much. It was too dangerous to let him live, but he was physically too valuable to waste. As usual, Kim had found a way to get everything she wanted.

Her lips wet and face shining, she pulled away from her lover, his hands heavy on her voluptuous curves. "Get the pod ready and set the self-destruct," she ordered him. "Judge Zombie here can keep those bitches busy – they'll go through my dad's men like a lasknife through synthi-spread. He'll hold 'em up long enough for us to get to sector 24 and eject." Omari grinned and nodded, snatching another kiss.

"Damn, girl," he said admiringly. "You're like a fever – ice cold and hot all at the same time. They say you can either get the brains or the beauty – but they're wrong, baby. You got _both_."

She gave a munce-munching grin. "Oh yeah, baby," she breathed. "And you've got me – all of me, just to yourself." She put her fingertip on his chin and stood on her tip-toes to kiss him, plans already forming and clicking behind the opacity of her beautiful eyes.

oOo

The second floor Anderson and Daz found themselves on seemed to be given over to servants' quarters – there was a basic common room with a small kitchenette, a couple of shared bathrooms, and several small bedrooms. There was a map screwed to the wall at the top of the stairwell; the Academy's mental exercises allowed the two Judges to memorize it at a glance. Systematically, they swept the floor, following the drill for close quarters battle. Daz was more experienced than Anderson and so took point, but the psi's ability to psynse targets around corners was invaluable. Anderson had shucked the beta mag from her widowmaker so she could slot in a magazine of viscosity shells taken from Daz; the older Judge had been loaded for door-kicking and although she'd lost her shotgun with her bike she'd kept the bullets. As they passed them, the psi secured doors with a couple of well-placed shots, the shells splattering globs of epoxy on the handles and jambs.

The men they encountered were gangers – street-hardened toughs handy with guns, knives and their fists. They had the home-turf advantage, but not the discipline and focus of the Judges, nor anything to match their technological superiority. Street-Judge armor was proof against smaller-caliber pistols, and a lawgiver or widowmaker could punch through any commercially-available armor. Even those perps wearing black-market mil-grade vests and plates were out of luck – a lot of it was poorly-maintained, or the underworld arms dealers had misrepresented what was for sale. Anderson shrugged, watching a dying man stare in shock at the gaping hole her shotgun had blown through his plastron into his sternum as he lay on his back in a pool of his own blood. "No warranties if you don't buy from a reputable dealer, creep," she quipped dismissively.

"Kitchen's through there," Daz said, flicking her head. She dropped an empty mag from her lawgiver and slammed another one home. "How many?"

Anderson didn't have to reach out – she just had to reach in. She was as aware of the minds around her as she was the pressure of her street fatigues on her sweating body; her consciousness ignored it unless she concentrated, but the moment she did it was clear. "Three," she said. "They're nervous, jittery – they've heard the gunfire." There were foggy patches in her perception – Kim's doing, no doubt. "Go in hard?" Daz nodded.

"Affirm," she said. Anderson stepped forward and blasted with the widowmaker, destroying the lock. She kicked the door open, spinning into the room, shotgun roaring. Daz followed behind her, lawgiver spitting death.

The perps never stood a chance – Anderson's first shot hit one in the face, her second blew the hand off another. Daz gunned down the third before he could even bring his own weapon to bear. He slammed against the fridge, groaning his death rattle as he slid down, leaving a smear of blood on the stainless steel. Daz swept the room, her pistol held ready. This was the main kitchen for the mopad, the place where the meals for the owners and guests were prepared. It was compact but well laid-out, as good as any two-star restaurant, sufficient to allow a capable chef to turn out delicious and extravagant meals. Stairs led upwards to the next level – the main living quarters for owners – and there was a dumb-waiter on one wall. Daz checked them both and then opened the fridge, shoving the perp's corpse aside – Daz wouldn't have put it past some creep to hide amid the shampagne and stroberriez. There were no surprises, except a nice-looking chocolate cake with creamy frosting Daz ran a finger through. "Clear!" she called, a little muffled as she licked her finger clean.

Anderson acknowledged her with a grunt. She magnetized the shotgun to her back and grabbed the wounded man. He was on his knees, sobbing in pain, his one remaining hand clamped around his elbow in a desperate attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The psi enveloped his head in her hands and his mind in hers, smashing through his paltry mental defenses. After a second, she tossed him to the ground. "They're Giuseppe's men," she told Daz. "Not Kim's. They've got no idea he's dead, or what her plan was." Daz didn't seem to think it mattered.

"Hardly surprising," she said. "Need to know – and they don't need to know." She shrugged. "These boys're just dumb muscle – Kim's the brains."

Anderson shook her head. "You don't get it," she said, angry at herself rather than Daz. "They think Kim's just some empty-headed bimbo – they're protecting her because she's the boss' daughter, not for any other reason. They'd flip on her in a _second_ if they knew she killed Calitri."

"_I_ killed Calitri," Daz reminded her.

"Yeah," said Anderson, "because Kim _tricked you_ into doing it. And we're _still_ doing her dirty work – taking out men loyal to her dad. Drokk it all!" she exclaimed. "She's played us for fools all along – she didn't let us get aboard because she thought she could kill us here, she let us get on board because she knew we'd kill people standing in her way!"

Daz didn't remind Anderson Kim had goaded her into the trap – she'd already told the psi that and laboring the point wouldn't change anything. In any case, it wasn't as if there was an option to _not_ take down the perps. "But what's her endgame?" she asked. "She's got to know she'll never get outta here. She can't unlock the mopad – we'd communicate with Control. She's trapped just like we, with nowhere to go."

Anderson shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's her plan, she's not told anyone else, and she's blocking me from reading her. She's clouding the bridge – but Reynolds is there with her. Wait . . ." She cocked her head. "He's not there . . . he's not _anywhere_. He's just . . . gone."

Daz looked at the psi as if she were crazy. "He's here," she said, "you're just not finding him. I've got to say," she added seriously, "I think you rely too much on . . ."

"_Down!_" screamed Anderson, diving over the island and launching herself at Daz. The SectCom was the psi's height but heavier, denser with more muscle. She braced instinctively, preventing the two of them toppling over, not realizing the danger Anderson's psynses screamed at her. Anderson slumped with her arms around Daz, half on the counter, half hanging off it. She scrabbled to get a foot against the edge, desperately trying to push the two of them down, or maybe just get herself off the island. Time seemed to stretch and warp, but Anderson knew it was all happening in a splintered second. Still, no time to be gentle. With a stab of pointed thought she slugged Daz into a limp heap. The two women clattered to the ground in a tangle of lithe limbs, weapons and armor. Daz's helmet tumbled clear and the widowmaker fell from Anderson's back.

The clutch of stun grenades fell down the shaft, bounced inside the dumb-waiter and rolled out. Whoever'd dropped them had timed it perfectly – they went off at waist height, the blast of blinding light and deafening noise filling the small kitchen and making every pot and pan ring like a gong.

For precious moments neither Anderson nor Daz could hear or see a thing – the impossibly-loud bang punched through the plugs as if they weren't there, and eyelids were no protection against the brighter-than-the-sun flash. Anderson was stunned and stupefied, her blinded vision running with the swirling lights of a brutal migraine and what felt like a thunderstorm tearing through her frontal lobe. Daz, unable to see or communicate, struggled to push the psi off her and get to her feet. She half managed it, but then Anderson vomited and her boot slipped. With the canals of her inner-ear ringing with concussion, her balance was gone – her foot flipped from under her and she crashed to the tile.

That saved her life. Reynolds, his face an impassive mask, his mind blank as a factory-fresh robot, ran down the stairs, firing as he came. His shots sliced through where Daz's head had been an instant before, shattering crockery and punching through the wall. His pistol pointed downwards, he whipped around the island to aim at the women.

Daz had fallen on her own gun and couldn't get her hand to it. Her vision was blurry, fogged with glowing bubbles, but her sight was coming back. She snatched her bootknife and stabbed, piercing Reynolds' boot and transfixing his foot to the floor. It was a desperate gamble – a Judge should be able to fight with both arms and one leg broken. A stabbed foot wouldn't slow him down.

But with his mind gone, with the manufactured-instincts of the Academy burned away, he reacted to the pain rather than acting. He howled and flailed, pistol-whipping Daz and snatching at the knife, tugging it free. Daz's head went crashing to the side, a deep cut opened above her temple, her skull slamming hard into the island. Reynolds snarled and lunged for her with the knife.

Groggy and dazed, all she could do was get her arm up. The blade pierced screen, leather and flesh, lodging between the bones of her forearm. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she twisted her arm to the side and punched up, her fist slamming between his legs.

Something gave wetly as she connected and he went staggering backwards, gasping in pain and dropping his gun so he could clutch at himself. Daz rolled over, getting her weight off her lawgiver, and fumbled for the draw. She'd barely got the pistol clear before he strode forward and kicked, the tip of his boot catching her under the chin and sending her flying back, teeth loosened and blood spraying from her mouth. She crashed down on her back and did not rise.

Anderson had just struggled to her hands and knees, her head hanging, when Reynolds grabbed her by the back of the neck and belt, lifting her up and throwing her over the island. She tumbled in a welter of limbs, crashing against the stove. She managed to get her feet down, but as she flung out a hand to steady herself she grabbed at the hot grates and screamed as the leather seared through to her fingers.

The pain burned the fog from her mind. She grabbed for her gun but it wasn't there – the holster was torn open, her lawgiver Grud-knows-where. _Automatic fail, Anderson . . ._ She could hear Dredd's voice as if he were standing next to her. On the other side of the island, Reynolds stooped and snatched, coming up with a gun pointed at her. She flung out a hand, reaching with her mind – stabbing, thrusting, attacking. Throw him off balance for a _second . . . !_

There was nothing there to attack – his mind was blank, the merest autonomic functions and formalized structures of training all that was left. The misogynistic sewer that had been Eliot Reynolds was _gone_. There were smoking scars showing where he'd been torn out and burned to nothing, but his personality, his very identity had been utterly destroyed. Kim Calitri had done that to him, a terrible and horrific thing – something Anderson wouldn't even know where to begin doing, even if she could have stomached the notion. She'd not liked the man, but _no-one_ deserved that.

Reynolds' face showed no emotion, not triumph, not hatred, not even interest, as he pulled the trigger. Anderson flinched, closing her eyes against the pain, but nothing happened. She snapped her eyes open. The gun cycled up a series of warning bleeps, ending in three very-negative metallic notes. _ID FAIL_ reported the display.

Anderson grinned. "Guess you didn't recognize it 'cause it wasn't pink?" she quipped. No Judge would be caught by an unauthorized use of a lawgiver – he hurled it at her before it could explode, and she flung herself to the side. It landed on the top of the stove, detonating an instant later, tearing the oven to pieces and ripping the propane tank open. A fireball blossomed, catching Anderson as she tumbled and roiling over the island to envelop Reynolds.

Judges' uniforms were Nomex-lined so Reynolds was never in real danger, but he flinched backwards, lifting his hand to shield his unprotected mouth and jaw. Anderson rolled into a crouch, ready to leap for him – but then a gun roared three times. Blood spurted from exit wounds in his hip and abdomen, and his badge deformed outwards, dented by catching the bullet that pierced his chest.

His expression didn't change as he looked down at himself, his legs trembling. One knee went out and he crashed to the floor, the impact knocking the badge loose. It fell ringing to the floor as a bullet hit him in the back of the neck, tearing out his throat in a welter of blood. He fell forward, face-planting with an ignominious _splatt!_

Anderson realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out in a long hiss as the faint glow of Reynolds' barely-mind vanished from her awareness. Behind him, Daz groaned and let her head sink back against the tile, her gun hand falling limply to her side. Anderson hurried forward, ignoring the ringing in her head and the nausea twisting her guts, fumbling to tend to the wounded SectCom.

The knife wound looked bad, but the bones were unbroken. A shot of biofoam and staples held it and staunched the bleeding. For now the hand had lost function, but once the Medi-Teks took a look it probably wouldn't even buy her 24 hours medical leave. Anderson suspected a hairline fracture in her jaw to go with the loosened canine and bitten tongue. The psi didn't bother asking her to follow her fingertip with her eyes, or even relying on the helmet's onboard medicomp – she touched Daz's mind and gently moved her way through it. Her consciousness was dazed, with the mental inflammation that suggested a potential concussion or other MTBI. Anderson did what she could, firing synapses like a mechanic accessing a car's circuits with a probe rather than the controls, easing the damage. She stood and offered Daz a hand up. After a second, she took it.

She was battered and bruised, splattered with blood – some of it hers, some of it Reynolds' – but it was the acidic, chunky spew plastered to her uniform Anderson felt most guilty about. "Sorry about throwing up," she said lamely.

Daz shrugged as she picked up her helmet and put it back on. "Don't worry about it," she chuckled. "Pigs like Reynolds make me sick too."

**A/n :** Not a lot of notes here – except a few on the hardware. Viscosity ordinances / glue grenades appear in various sci-fi settings (I think the military actually is developing or using them). They are similar to the riot foam of the comics – an air-hardening foam which traps things in it. It seemed like a useful sort of weapon to have.

Breaching rounds are a specialized munition designed to blow up locks and hinges; you can open doors with a regular shotgun shell, but a breaching round is made of a metallic dust which destroys the lock but does not penetrate further beyond. It is designed to be safer to use.

Now, you've read this far – why not tell me what you think in the box below? Just type your thoughts and hit the button!


	6. Endgame

**Prog 6 : Endgame**

Standing on the mopad's bridge, Kim Calitri swore with quiet frustration. "For all his talk," she said, as she watched Anderson and Daz edge their way up the stairs, "I would have expected him to be able to deal with at least _one_ of them."

Omari shrugged. "All mouth, no trousers, those Judge-boys," he said. The bridge occupied the front of the upper level of the mopad, banks of control stations blinking diligently away to themselves in front of the seamless curve of the armorglass windshield, now enclosed in the ABC-sealed shutters. The two of them were alone – Kim had sent her men to face the Judges, and the sophisticated computer systems were capable of navigating and maintaining the massive vehicle without human intervention. There was nothing for them to do except wait and watch. Omari glanced at a monitor. "Just entering sector 13 now," he said. "Twenty-seven minutes until we're in sector 24." Kim nodded distractedly, watching the two Judges move through the corridors of the level directly below her. "The escape pod'll be in range of your penthouse in half an hour, tops. Self-destruct is linked to the pod launch."

Kim didn't respond, her dark eyes still glued to the screens in front of her. "They'll be here before then," she said suddenly. "Get out there and hold them."

Omari didn't look impressed. "C'mon, babe," he complained. "You _wanted_ them to kill your dad's men. They're just two little girls – security can hold 'em."

"They haven't so far," Kim reminded him sharply.

"They've got no discipline," he said dismissively. "They just need someone in charge."

Kim spun to face him, her face transfigured and her mind ripping into his. "Then get down there and take charge!" she screamed. "Are you _afraid_?" she goaded him, her psionic powers tweaking all the little insecurities she knew he had. "Can't take two little girls? Sure, Reynolds was a gabby pig, but at least he had the stones to take 'em on. How full are _your_ trousers, loudmouth?" she mocked.

Omari's expression darkened terrifyingly. He stepped forward and slapped her face, backhanding her with a tawdry portion of his strength but still enough to send her sprawling. He grabbed her as she tumbled, shaking her like a ragdoll to get her to listen. "Your watch that pretty mouth, babe," he said threateningly. "Plenty more pieces of ass in this city, and you know you can't take over this gang without me." He pinched her cheeks between his big fingers, holding her bruised face in place. Kim's beautiful eyes were wide with simulated fear, but behind them she was calm as a stone – he'd taken the bait, responding to the insult of his manhood and completely forgetting the _reason_ she'd let the Judges aboard in the first place. "Now," he continued, mollified and not-a-little aroused by her compliance, "I'm gonna go down there and solve your Judge problem for you. And then I'm gonna come back up and you're gonna say sorry to me _real nice_." He smiled suggestively and tilted her face, pulling her head down a few inches to make his intention clear.

She sighed theatrically, her mind wrapping itself around his, misogyny and lust lubricating her psionic-tentacles even as they gummed up his thoughts. "Oh, baby," she breathed. "You know I can't resist being put in my place by a _real_ man." She wormed her way free and kissed him, rubbing her body against his. "Go show those little girls what you're made of," she whispered, hot and wet in his ear. "I'll be waiting."

_Waiting for them to show you what they're made of, that is,_ she thought as he swaggered off the bridge. She winced and massaged her cheek, locking the door behind him. She secured it with her DNA match – the Judges would just blast their way in, but she'd grown tired of Omari a long time ago. Thirty minutes, and all the loose ends would be tied up.

oOo

The stairs from the kitchen led up to a dining room, the walls and ceiling glittering with gilding and crystal. The two Judges' boots left squelching prints of blood and pool-water on the expensive carpet as they carefully edged their way around the table. Daz held her lawgiver in her right hand, her wounded left arm bracing it despite the pain. Anderson had her widowmaker held high and tight to her shoulder, whipping around corners with a sudden speed that didn't help her headache as her bruised brain sloshed in her skull.

There were doors to either side of the dining room, leading to long, narrow rooms with panoramic windows which would have afforded lovely views if the shutters hadn't been sealed. One was a library, tall bookshelves lining the walls. The other was a drawing room, the scent of cigar smoke and imported CalHab whisky heavy in the air.

The two Judges had settled into an efficient, alert rhythm now; despite their weariness and strength-sapping injuries they swept from room to room with silent expertise, communication at a minimum. They cleared the library and drawing room in seconds, securing the doors with viscosity shells. Anderson glanced at the readout on her widowmaker's stock. "One left," she told her partner.

"Lots of doors on these Royales," said Daz shortly. "But we shouldn't need any more." She pointed at the set of double doors ahead of them. "Usual layout is the grand staircase through there. Beyond it, an observation deck under the bridge. The stairs double back to a landing. Master bedroom towards the rear with others on the sides – bridge at the front. Where's our fox?"

Anderson smiled. "That's what John calls perps he's chasing," she said.

"Yeah," muttered Daz shortly. "He got that from me."

"_Liar_," said Anderson without even missing a beat. "Vixen's on the bridge – but she's got a whole . . . herd? Pack?" She cocked her head and looked at Daz. "What do foxes come in?" she asked. "Prides? Clutches? Anyway – lots of perps between us and her. They're on the balcony above the staircase." She closed her eyes and visibly concentrated, pain twisting her features. "A dozen of 'em, at least. They're taking orders from a senior gangbanger, he's in with Kim." She opened her eyes and looked at Daz. "Her boyfriend, they're jealous of him, like to pretend he's only in charge because she likes him – but they know he's capable." She smiled as she probed deeper. "He wants to double-cross Kim – thinks he can run the gang himself, find himself another piece of tail." She shook her head. "And they say romance is dead," she chuckled. Her nostril blew a bloody-bubble and she coughed. Embarrassed, she dabbed at her upper lip.

"You okay?" asked Daz seriously. Anderson wiped at the blood and reached for her bottle of pills. She popped two dry.

"I'm fine," she said dismissively. She sniffed and pinched her nose. "Migraine. I get them. No biggie." She fixed Daz with a stare as if daring her to make something of it. Slowly, the older Judge nodded.

"Maybe go easy on the psi-spug, huh?" she offered.

Anderson glanced meaningfully at Daz's wound. "You gonna go easy on the arm?" was all she said.

Daz smiled. "I guess not," she said. "So, what do you think? Outnumbered, covered from an elevated position, likely full-auto weapons. Academy textbooks say that's suicide."

"Yeah, well," muttered Anderson, "you know psis can't read. Blow a hole in the door, daisy-cutters and flash-bangs, go in hard and fast after them?" For the first time that day, she didn't sound completely confident. Daz nodded, pulling grenades off her belt and holding her hand out for Anderson's. She held them between her fingers like a street-bunko performing the cups-and-balls trick, priming each one carefully.

"Three second fuses," she said. "Ten-foot bounce on the betties – that should be good, right?" She flicked her head at the door. "Make me a hole," she said. Anderson nodded and leveled the widowmaker, but Daz laid a hand on her arm. "If we don't survive . . ." she began.

Anderson cut her off by racking the shotgun to chamber a buckshot round. "If we don't survive," she said pointedly, "it wasn't good working with each other." She shifted her weight and worked her hands on the butt of the gun. "You ready?" she asked.

"Damn," exclaimed Daz, "and I thought _I_ was cold." She steadied herself and slapped a breaching charge on the latch, setting the fuse to seven seconds. She nodded. "In three . . . two . . . one . . ."

Anderson pulled the trigger, tearing a four-inch hole through the realwood panel of the door. She spun away, her back against the wall and her shoulder against the jamb as Daz tossed the half-dozen grenades through in two batches. The SectCom dived to the side as automatic fire ripped through the door, smashing rails and and stiles into splinters. She might have taken one or two on the armor, but in the excitement and adrenaline she didn't feel it. She rolled to her feet on the other side of the door from Anderson.

The grenades hit the floor, the heavy metal spheres thudding on the carpet, slowing as they rolled on the thick pile. Three of them deployed miniature rams, convulsively springing upwards to hang for a splintered second level with the balcony railing. And then, at the very apogee of their leap, they detonated. Below them, the three flash-bangs went off with the eponymous flash and bang – a thunderclap and lightning bolt trapped in a confined space, blinding and deafening anyone caught inside them.

To the merely-human senses of the gangers on the upper level, it all seemed to happen to them at once – but, in truth, the eye-boiling light hit first. A microsecond later, the expanding disks of supersonic shrapnel from the daisy-cutters sliced into them at diaphragm-height. Finally, before they felt the pain or started to tumble, before even they started to bleed, the deafening _krak!_ of the explosions hit them like a punch in the head.

Eardrums battered and perforated, rods-and-cones overstimulated to uselessness, pain stumbling them and their balance thrown, they could neither see nor hear when the breaching charge went off, blowing the ruined doors inwards, and the two Judges charged in with weapons blazing.

The grand staircase room seemed larger than it was, the grandeur of the furnishings and dramatic looping-back stairway creating the illusion of size it did not possess. Even so, the bouncing-betty daisy-cutters were operating at beyond their lethal-fifty range – no gangers were killed, although a couple might have been incapacitated. Anderson and Daz had three, at most five, seconds before their eyes recovered and they could see what they were shooting at.

Not that that stopped the perps – a couple of them just pointed down and blasted, machine-guns tearing holes in the carpet and walls. Daz spun as a bullet caught her in the shoulder, dropping her to one knee. She slipped and fell, her wounded arm going out to support her. She cried out in pain, her shots going wide.

Anderson charged towards the stairs, widowmaker roaring. She felt bullets hit her armor, denting the plates, bruising her flesh, maybe cracking a rib. She ignored it all and concentrated her fire on the starboard side of the gallery, the ammo-readout on the shotgun turning from green to orange to red and – finally – black with an ominous _click!_ She cursed and dived into the lee of a statue at the top of the first flight of stairs, pressing herself into the corner. The stairs split here, doubling back so they reached to the balcony. With the left side of the gallery cleared and her behind the statue, she was shielded from gunfire. The muscular bronze nude rang with bullet impacts, the globe on his shoulders shuddering and dented. Ridiculous details imposed themselves on her mind – what sort of arrogant spug owned a statue of Atlas with 'The World is Mine' on the base?

Below her, Daz rolled onto her back and sent two hi-ex rounds into the port-side balcony, blowing it and the gangers on it apart in a blossoming fireball. The wreckage of the gallery and that side of the stairwell crashed down, mingled with a rain of butchered bodyparts. Daz cried out as spars of plasteen fell on her, pinning her to the floor.

Anderson looked up the stairs – three gangers were left standing, one of them clearly the leader with his flamboyant clothes and ridiculous sunglasses like a venetian blind. They were blinking, the flash-bangs wearing off, fumbling to reload the machine-guns they'd blindly fired. _Now or never_, Anderson thought. She drew her bootknife and daystick, leaped to her feet and charged up the stairs with an inarticulate roar.

She slammed into the first perp, her knife sinking between his ribs and emptying his lungs in a froth of air and blood. He crashed to the ground, taking her knife with it. The next reacted quickly, swinging his gun at her. She blocked it with the baton, the hot metal of the barrel bending. He snarled and punched her, hard. His fist crashed into the orbit of her eye and she staggered back, blood vessels burst and her vision blurred.

He swung again, but she was ready for him. She caught his wrist between her arm and the daystick, snapping the bones of his forearm with a crack. He screamed in pain and slumped to his knees. She broke his nose with a crushing headbutt to keep him there. It wasn't exactly _ladylike_, but neither was the emasculating crush with her other hand she used to make certain he was out of the fight.

Her psynses gave her a split-second warning and she ducked, just in time for the bullet from Omari's gilded hand-cannon to go whizzing past rather than through her forehead. Her head ringing, ears bleeding, she whipped the daystick up and cracked his wrist, causing the pistol to fall from nervous fingers. "You cray-cray, girl," the big man snarled.

"Crazy?" yelled Anderson. "Oh, you ain't seen me crazy yet!" She swung for him, but her caught her arm in one ham-sized fist and punched her in the stomach, doubling her over. His elbow crashed down on her back, driving her to her knees.

The armor saved her spine, but an electric buzz sizzled through her nerves and her legs tingled with numbness for a second. She pushed herself forward, grabbing him around the waist and getting one foot under her. With a bellow of rage, she shoved forward with every ounce of muscle in her thighs and hips, forcing him to take a step backwards.

Below her, Daz lifted her pistol and sighted carefully. She couldn't shoot Omari without hitting Anderson, but that didn't mean she couldn't help. Two precise shots shattered the banisters and the railing snapped, sending the ganger and Judge tumbling from the balcony in a flailing windmill of limbs.

Omari grunted as he landed on his back, Anderson's full armored weight smashing into his stomach. He retched blood and vomit, gasping and choking. Anderson and he wrestled – in a fair fight, his weight and strength would have been more than enough to twist her into a pretzel, but this was hardly a fair fight. He knee came up between his legs and he very quickly lost interest in the struggle. She straddled his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees, and punched him – both fists, her shoulders swinging, the breath sobbing between her teeth – in the head, blood splattering and bone crunching with each blow. "I! Am! Judge! Hear! Me! Roar!"

"I think he heard you," said Daz helpfully.

Abruptly, Anderson stopped. Breathing heavily, she pushed her sweat-slick hair back with bruised hands. "Yeah," she said. Slowly, as if the fight had aged her twenty years, Anderson eased herself off the bloodied perp she'd battered into unconsciousness if not brain-damage or death. She straightened arthritically, one hand on her hip, the other gingerly probing her face. "Grud on a greenie," she said with feeling. She bent and helped lift a plasteen girder off Daz. The older Judge wormed her way out from under it and rolled to her knees and then her feet.

"That about covers it," agreed Daz. She pressed her hand to her thigh – it came away sticky red, but nothing that wouldn't keep. "Clear?" she asked. Anderson nodded. "Okay," Daz said, looking up the stairs to the bridge door. "Let's do this thing."

oOo

Kim Calitri, sitting patiently in the command chair, shielded her eyes from the sun-bright flare as the thermite cut the lock and the door was kicked open, the two Judges striding through. The older one leveled a lawgiver at her, while the psi stood to one side, a shotgun held at port arms. Slowly, Kim raised her hands. "I would have unlocked it if you'd asked," she said. She flicked her head towards the minibar at the other end of the bridge. "Drink?" she offered. "You both look like you could use it," she added, not unkindly.

"We'll pass, thanks," said Anderson tightly. Kim shrugged.

"Hey, no need to be rude," she said. "We fought, I lost. I surrender – no hard feelings?"

"I got a dead Judge and a wounded Rookie back in one-nineteen," Daz snapped. "So, _lots_ of hard feelings."

Kim huffed, folding her arms. "Well, if you're going to be like that," she pouted, "I'll point out you've killed my dad and _two_ of my boyfriends. Do you know how hard it is to find a good man in this city?" Something caught her psynses and she turned to Anderson. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, _Cassie_?" she smirked. The Judge's eyes narrowed and she stepped threateningly forward, drawing back the stock of the widowmaker. "Oh, don't be silly," Kim said. "Like I said – you won, I lost. I'm not some silly little boy who's going to kick and scream at the end. Be a lady and accept my surrender gracefully." She stood up and limped forward – her thigh wound was closed, but a river of clotted blood ran down her leg – holding her hands out.

Daz flicked her head, keeping her gun trained on Kim. Anderson stowed the shotgun and pulled her restraints, stepping forward to cuff the perp. Kim didn't move as she approached, instead thoughtfully sighing. "Shouldn't have left it to the boys," she sniffed. "If you want something done . . ."

Just as Anderson reached for her, she moved with a sudden speed that surprised the Judges, stepping to put the psi between her and the lawgiver. She lunged for the control board, diving for a blinking red button – self-destruct, had to be. Her hand was six inches from it when Anderson's shotgun roared and the viscosity shell detonated. The glob of epoxy foam hardened over the button, sealing the plastic shield in place before Kim could even flip it up. The gang-queen pulled back her hand, examining the splatters on her nails with distaste. "Ruined my manicure," she said bitterly. She sighed and grinned, offering her wrists again. "Can't blame me for trying," she smiled.

Anderson resisted the urge to smash her unconscious with the widowmaker's stock. "You know," she said as she spun her around and bent her over the control board, snapping the cuffs on, "yeah, I can." She grabbed her by the back of the neck and hauled her upright, restraining her mind as effectively as her wrists. Daz studied the control board and tabbed a few controls. With a clanking whir of servos, the shutters folded back and the mopad unlocked itself. On Anderson's wrist, her communicator bleeped as it re-connected to the J-Dept network. "Judges Anderson and Daz," she called in, "10-26, repeat 10-26. Slabs and grabs."

The voice of an operator came back instantly and – refreshingly – female. "_Confirming 10-26, Judges requiring assistance,_" she said pleasantly. "_Your GPS is mobile, establishing drone surveillance._" There was a short pause. "_Royale mopad on westbound Leavenworth megaboulevard, passing junction 13-07. Can you stop the vehicle, Judge Anderson?_"

Daz hit a few more buttons and the tone of the engines changed, the speed the road-markings zoomed by at dropping. It would take a mile or more for the big vehicle to come to a halt. "Affirmative on that, Control," said Anderson. "Can I expect backup?"

"_Hold for confirmation, Judge Anderson,_" Control said crisply. The line went dead for a few seconds – the operator was speaking to another Judge. "_Confirming backup, Street patrol will meet you at the 13-09 lay-by, immediate. Med- and catch-wagons inbound._"

"Slow and stop programmed," said Daz. "I see our backup." Anderson peered past Kim through the panoramic windshield at the street-dusty lawmaster driving the wrong-way down the westbound lanes of the megaboulevard, blues-and-twos wailing. The speeding cars gave it a respectfully-wide berth as it eased to a stop on the edge of the lay-by, the Judge on the back dismounting. Even at this distance, and behind the visor of the perpetually-worn helmet, Anderson could tell he wasn't smiling.

"Thank you, Control," Anderson said. "We're good."

"_You're welcome, Judge,_" said the operator. "_Have a nice day._"

"Oh, I will now," said Anderson contentedly, as the mopad parked itself next to Judge Dredd.

**A/n :** Very nearly the end of the story. Really, as the chapter title suggests, this _is_ where the story would normally end – but nothing is normal in Mega City One and my stories! One more chapter to, well, not tie up loose ends but rather . . . to loosen ends we might have thought were tied!

Nothing really huge to discuss about this chapter – just some action and so forth.

Why not tell me what you think? Review box is right there! I write back, and always repay review favors! Reviews don't just make me feel good (you might tell me my writing is terrible and you don't like it!) More importantly, they tell me IMPORTANT stuff. Namely, what you like and don't like, what you want to see and don't want to see etc. etc.

I wanna write stuff _for you_. Tell me what you want to read. I know Teresa P wants more Cornelius stuff – and that is most definitely coming! But what do the rest of you want?


	7. Loosened Ends

**Prog 7 : Loosened Ends**

Anderson kept one hand firmly on the gang-queen's shoulder and her mind wrapped around hers as she marched her down the stairs of the mopad to the tarmac of the road. After the brutal shoot-out, incongruous in the luxury of the Royale, the peaceful dirt of the street felt like coming home. Dredd met her at the door. "Got your 10-26," he growled. He barely glanced at her prisoner but ran his eyes carefully over his former-Rookie. "What happened in there?"

"Smuggling bust," she said shortly.

"Looks like you've been through it," Dredd remarked.

She didn't quite smile. "Perps were . . . _uncooperative_," she said.

Dredd nodded and looked at the gang-queen as if seeing her for the first time. "Kim Calitri," he realized.

She sneered at him and curtseyed as best as she could in the restraints. "You want an autograph?" she asked acidly. She pouted her lips. "Or maybe a duckface selfie? I think hashtag sexyperps is still trending."

Dredd's frown didn't twitch. "Might impress the boys in the squad room, but I'll pass," he said. "Oh," he added, as if it were an afterthought. "Attempting to bribe a Judge – six-months." He turned to the psi. "What'd she do, Anderson?"

_Now_ Anderson grinned. "Psi-crimes and misdemeanors," she quipped. _Been waiting for an age to use that!_ she thought to herself. She wasn't disappointed in the result.

Dredd's permafrown twitched. "Heh," he said. He looked past Kim at the Judge limping down the stairs. "Daz," he acknowledged. "How's my Rookie?"

Daz shrugged. "They're each other's problem now, Dredd," she said with a smile.

It was physically impossible to read Dredd's mood behind his visor, but Anderson could tell he was impressed. "That so?" he asked. He nodded. "Good assignment," he said shortly. It wasn't clear exactly who he was talking about, if indeed there was a single answer. He flicked his chin up at the mopad. "Anything special in there?" he asked.

"Dropped bronze on level two," said Daz shortly. "If you could take care of that?" Dredd nodded.

"For Forest or the forge?" he asked.

"Trip-six," she answered grimly. "Sunder it."

He cocked his head. "You call that in?" he asked. She nodded. He glanced around, scanning the roads and the surrounding buildings. "SJS should be here pretty soon, then," he said. He looked back at Anderson and Daz, seeing their wounds and weariness. "You want me to take charge of the scene?" he asked. "You both look like you could use a medic – surgeon can see you at the sector house." Daz shook her head.

"Med-wagon'll hold me until I get back to one-nineteen," she said, "and Anderson'll want to take Kim to . . ." She realized she didn't know. "Wherever PsiDiv keeps its prisoners," she finished.

"HOJ," Anderson said shortly. "We've got secured facilities under the medical wing. Any grabs in the mopad are mine too, Dredd," she said. "My Teks and I need to take a look under the hood – see what Little-Miss Brain-Drain here did to them." She shoved Kim, none-too-gently. "Alright, cutie," she said. "Hashtag doingtime."

Kim didn't struggle, but neither did she move. She turned to face Dredd and Anderson. "Listen," she said urgently, "you have _no idea_ what's going on here. You've got to cut me a deal."

Anderson actually laughed. "A deal?" she mocked. "You flipped some horn-dog pig trip-six and he kills one Judge and wounds another, Daz and I get beat up, down and every which way and you think you can cut a deal?" She shook her head. "No dice, hotsauce," she said. "You must _really_ think blondes are dumb if you expect me to buy _that_."

Kim hissed in frustration. "Not on my _sentence_!" she snapped. "You've got to protect me – I'll roll on these people," she promised, "but you've _got_ to get me into protective custody. Like, _right now_," she added urgently.

Something about her voice at least partially-convinced Dredd. Almost casually, he snapped his holster's thumb-break open. "Protection from _who_, creep? There's three lawgivers here – how much more protection do you want?" Anderson coughed and held up two fingers. Dredd's gaze fell to her ripped-open holster. "Again?" he asked with a very faint smile. "Should I tie it to your wrist with a bit of string?"

"Wouldn't hurt," admitted Anderson. "But, while we're on the subject of getting tied up . . ."

She got no further before Kim's head simply exploded, splattering the Judges with a glutinous rain of blood, bone fragments and brain-matter. Dredd was in motion before her body had even started to topple, grabbing Anderson and dragging her into the cover of his lawmaster. A split-second later, the crack of the rifle reached their ears. "Sniper," she muttered. "Idiot! Stupid, drokking _idiot!_" she chided herself.

On the megaboulevard slidewalks, citizens screamed and scattered, some of them running across the multiple lanes of the wide road in their panic. Horns honked and brakes squealed, a pedestrian or two getting clipped by speeding vehicles and a car rear-ending another with a crash of tortured metal. Dredd ignored it all – he had bigger problems. "Can it, Anderson," he growled. He swept his head, searching the surrounding buildings for the tell-tale glint of light on the lens of a scope. It was fruitless – it was a bright, sunny day in late August, lots of windows on the buildings, the glitter of glass everywhere. "Daz!" he called. "You got anything?"

From where she was crouched in the stairwell of the mopad, Daz shook her head. "Nope," she said tightly. She glanced at the gang-queen's body lying supine on the slidewalk, the gorgeous limbs artlessly strewn. Were it not for the missing head, splattered gore and pool of blood leaking from the neck, it could have been a piece of pin-up street-theater. As it was, it still might have not looked out of place in some crazy art-installation. "Judging from the way she fell, I'm guessing the shot came from the south-west." Dredd squinted as he turned that way, photochromic visor darkening.

"Makes sense," he grunted. "We're looking into the sun." His wrist computer bleeped and he glanced down at it. "Audio analysis suggests a nine-mil rifle, range about four-hundred yards." He pointed. "That parking deck?" he suggested.

Anderson peered cautiously over the seat of the bike – it was alright for Dredd, she reflected; he was wearing a helmet. She had no desire to take a cranial shot _twice_ in her career. She grit her teeth and put her hand to her head. Spikes of pain shot through it – her temples felt like storm clouds joined by crackling chains of lightning, and about that fuzzy. Her migraine was going to get worse before it got better. She ignored it all and pushed through. "North-east corner," she said. "Floor . . . eighteen. He's rabbiting!" she cried, jumping up.

Dredd leaped onto his bike, Anderson behind him and clinging to his waist. "Daz!" he yelled. "You've got the scene!" He didn't wait for a response, instead opening the throttle of his lawmaster and roaring towards the parking deck, weaving through the lanes of traffic and over the median, dodging speeding cars by inches. "Where's he going?" he shouted. Anderson shook her head.

"Too much psionic noise!" she yelled back. "And it's been a long day – my head's been used like a punching bag. Just get there and hope we're lucky!" Dredd grunted affirmatively and sped through the barrier, the robotic parking attendant thrusting a ticket at him as he went by. Hitting the blues-and-twos, he raced up the spiraling ramp to level eighteen, weaving through the cars to the north-east corner. He lay thick lines of black rubber as he screeched to a halt.

There was no-one there, but there was line-of-sight to the mopad and Kim's corpse. It would have been an easy shot for a sniper – less than five-hundred yards. There were too-many cars to hide behind, too-many ways to get away, too-many exits – the shooter was long-gone. Dredd dismounted and scoured the area, but it was Anderson who noticed the shell casing. "Expended brass," she said, pointing. Dredd pulled the CSI kit from his belt and picked it up with the long tweezers.

"Seven sixty-two," he grunted. "Audio sig said nine." Anderson shrugged.

"At that distance, and with the echoes, it's not an exact science," she pointed out.

"Hmm." Dredd was non-committal. "A sniper would police the brass," he said. "You think he just forgot?" He held the metal steady in front of his visor, letting the thermal imaging do its work. "Cold, too," he said. "This wasn't fired recently."

Anderson swung herself off the bike, reaching for the canteen. Dredd watched impassively as she swallowed two pills with a grimace. She wiped the mouth of the bottle before putting it back – she hadn't wiped it before she drank. "Planted?" she asked. She walked towards the low wall, standing where the sniper would have stood, her eyes closed and her hand hovering over the rough, pitted concrete. She dropped to one knee, her arms coming up without conscious effort to handle an invisible rifle. "He knelt here," she said. "His wrist pressed here, the bipod on the wall . . ." She sank deeper into her trance. "The sight's got digital overlay, can't feel the scope on my eye . . ." she murmured. "The butt's locking against . . . against the eagle," she realized. She started and came back to herself, standing smoothly upright. "Nine-mil 'lawrod' DMR," she said. "Scope slaved to a helmet processor and HUD."

Dredd nodded – although he never had, and likely never would, she still felt a rush of warmth when he didn't ask if she were sure. "Another trip-six," he said with disgust. He looked at the cartridge carefully and then dropped it into an evidence bag. "Probably a frangible dum-dum round," he grunted. "Likely won't find enough for forensics – lab can't prove it wasn't a seven sixty-two. Clever."

Anderson leaned on the wall and looked down at the mopad – the SJS were there now, _finally_, along with catch- and medi-wagons, a small bustle of citizen forensic-auxiliaries handling the after-action with a justice-blue clad Tek-Judge supervising. Bumblebee tape had been stretched around bollards, automated warnings to keep back playing from the wagons' speakers. Daz was sitting in the open rear door of an ambulance, her jacket stripped off so her wounds could be tended to. She looked minute in her black spandex-cotton sports-bra, her pale skin bright in the sunlight, but she was holding her lawgiver in her lap, her forgotten-wintergreen eyes still sweeping the street. "Designated marksmen rifles don't ID check," she muttered. "Best we could hope for would be a ballistic match with the weapon, not a shooter."

"Like I said," growled Dredd, "clever."

Anderson turned and leaned against the wall, rolling her head to ease the kinks out of her neck, letting the painkillers work. "The Rawne investigation was classified," she said. "But – off the record – Chief Judge told me it was closed with six badges in the smelter. What'd you hear about it?"

Dredd demurred. "You know I like to stay out of politics," he grunted.

Anderson wasn't having it. "Yeah, and I know you never manage to. Wha'd'ya hear?"

He gave a little twist of his neck and looked away from her. "Hershey's got an in with the heavy-bronze – CJ and sector command of CapZone. She's moving up. Good Judge."

"I've heard that," said Anderson dismissively. "What'd she tell you?"

"The unofficial-official word is like you said," Dredd said slowly. "Investigation closed, six for Aspen. But SJS are still poking around, and the word is they're looking at themselves. Chief Judge doesn't want the investigation to hit the powdervine – bad for department morale."

"Makes DCJ look bad, too," Anderson said. Dredd shook his head.

"You'd think that," he said, "but Cal and Goodman went toe-to-toe on it, screaming match in her office. Hershey got it from a civ auxiliary – nearly went down to daysticks and bootknives, apparently. DCJ wanted to go public – said he needed to clear SJS' name, let the department know they could be trusted. Wasn't happy when Goodman overruled him."

"Could be reverse psychology," said Anderson. "What do you think?"

"I think headgames are your department, Anderson," Dredd grunted. "Benefits to both approaches. Cal's a good man. Chief Judge trusts him, perhaps more than she trusts herself." He shrugged. "That . . . comforts me."

The spell was broken. Anderson actually laughed. "Comforts?" she asked, incredulous. "Joe Dredd is . . . comforted?"

The crag-like contours of his mouth and chin stiffened. "I'm only human, Anderson," he reminded her. She chuckled and looked over her shoulder at the scene below, and then started and spun around.

"What the drokk . . . ?" she exclaimed. "SJS are taking my perps! Hey!" she yelled. "_Hey!_ My grabs, you skull-faced spugs! _My grabs!_" She turned and jumped on Dredd's bike. "Either drive me or gimme the keys!" she snapped.

Dredd put his forearm across her shoulder and shoved her back on the seat, mounting up in front of her and speeding down the ramps and out of the parking deck, cutting across the megaboulevard in a scream of sirens. He skidded to a halt alongside the black SJS catch-wagon just as the last of the perps was being loaded in. His lawgiver bleeped and cycled down as the override kicked in. Anderson was incensed.

"You're disabling sidearms?" she screamed, leaping from the bike. "On the _street_? With conscious grabs and a sniper about?" She strode threateningly towards the senior SJS man – Slocum; _of course_ it would be Slocum with his eyes like the sheen of spit on asphalt and the clammy mind. "Are you _insane?_"

She might have actually throttled Slocum – squeezing his scrawny, wattled neck until the grinning skull-faced helmet popped off his balding head – but another SJS Judge interposed himself, grabbing her hand and going for the arm-lock. She rolled with it, flipping him over her shoulder to land on the pavement. "Touch me there again and you'll have to marry me," she said archly, her boot on the back of his neck.

Dredd interposed himself between her and Slocum, half his attention warily on the taser in the SJS Judge's hand. "Let him up, Anderson," he growled. The psi let out the breath she'd been holding and stepped back. As her victim got sheepishly to his feet, Dredd faced Slocum. "Since when do SJS involve themselves in criminal matters?" he asked.

Slocum's tongue came out and licked his lips – it was pale and pointed, and Anderson could feel the slimy weight of his gaze on her. It slithered off her and over to Daz, dwelling on the older woman's naked torso. The SectComm very deliberately crossed her arms over her chest. His attention slid, finally, to Dredd. "Since they're implicated in a triple-six," he said simply. "Special Judicial Service needs to interview them." He turned to the psi. "I'm sure you understand, Judge Anderson," he said with a mirthless smile. "Inappropriate conduct among Judges _must_ be our highest priority. But, don't worry – you'll have full access to them once we're done." The smile widened but became no more sincere. "If you come 'round to see us, bring pizza and beer, will you?"

Anderson started for him, her beautiful face a snarl, but Dredd caught her by the shoulders and shook his head. "Let it go, Cassandra," he whispered in her ear. She didn't listen, actually struggled. "Let. It. _Go._"

She relaxed in his grasp, shaking his hands off and nodding her head in thanks. She brushed her uniform down, suddenly very aware of the scuffs and the scratches, the pool-water still sloshing in her boots and making her underwear chaffe, the sweat and bruises and blood, not to mention the brutal headache. Slocum's uniform was clean and polished, the bronze gleaming, barely scuffed. "Sniper took out the principal," she said tightly. "Floor eighteen, north-east corner of that parking deck. I think he was a Judge – used a lawrod. She was going to sing canary – _another_ trip-six shut her up for good." Slocum shrugged easily.

"Think?" he asked. "Little psyker games, Anderson?" He shook his head. "Might be good enough for Street, but SJS have to a _mite_ more discerning. Got proof?" he asked. Dredd shook his head. Slocum showed him the helpless empty-handed gesture which said there was nothing more to be done. "Maybe forensics will turn up something on the stiff," he offered. He gathered the other SJS Judge up by eye and slammed the rear door of the catch-wagon, mounting up in the passenger seat. Dredd and Anderson watched it drive away, he impassive, she fuming.

"What're the odds those perps die in SJS custody?" she asked bitterly. "'Shot while trying to escape is popular', I hear." Dredd shrugged.

"Gambling's illegal, Anderson," he growled, "but even if it weren't, I ain't taking that bet. It's understandable, though," he admitted. "Sentence for their crimes is death, they'd see it as tidying up for you." She rounded on him, her jaw and fists clenched.

"I need to see inside their heads!" she hissed. "I've got _precious_ little data on psi-crimes, and someone just put a bullet through one brain and carted the rest off! I need to know what they know!"

"That's what they're afraid of," said Dredd. "SJS keep investigations sealed tight – don't want Street involved."

Anderson couldn't believe her ears. "You're _defending_ them?" she cried. "Of all the spugging . . . !"

"I'm _explaining_." Dredd's voice was a sharp growl. "You've got the bronze, Anderson, and you earned it – but sometimes you need an old hand's advice. Slocum'll find the sniper – he's just blowing smoke saying he doesn't trust your intel. You forget he put the bug in Cal's ear about getting you in SJS?" He shook his head. "He's a jerk, but he's a robohound for dirty Judges. And he can make your life Hell – even _with_ your bronze. Let it go," he advised.

She nodded. He'd said that minutes before – _let it go_ – and now she remembered something she hadn't noticed at the time. "You called me Cassandra," she said.

It was impossible of course, but Dredd looked embarrassed. "Trying to get you to listen to me, Anderson," he muttered. She smiled and, greatly daring, laid a hand on his arm.

"I always listen to you," she said softly. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be where I am today." She drew back, unprepared for the sudden flush of emotion and ashamed she'd prodded that from him. "Come on," she said as brightly as she could manage. "I'll take you up on that offer of the sector 13 infirmary – I haven't seen the old place in a year and a half. Is Kildare still surgeon? He always liked me."

Dredd didn't respond, instead looking over her shoulder as Daz came up, zipping her jacket. "You good?" he asked, glancing at her arm in its sling. She nodded.

"I'll keep 'till I get back to one-nineteen," she said with a smile. "Good to see you again, Dredd. Stay safe."

Dredd shook her hand. "You too, Daz."

Daz turned the psi. "Good working with you, Anderson," she said with feeling. "Wish it had ended differently for you. Cornelius is in good hands."

Anderson smiled. "Likewise, it's Cassandra, me too, and thank you," she said smoothly. Daz chuckled.

"Flash the bronze, Cassandra," she said without irony. She and Anderson linked hands and pulled towards each other, clinking their chest eagles together.

"Flash the bronze, _Estelle_," said Anderson, the name barely-whispered. The two women pulled apart, Daz eying Anderson warily with the unmistakable look that asked _what else do you know?_ but the psi's face was neutral as saline. The SectCom raised her hand in a brief salute to Dredd and swung herself into the passenger seat of the medi-wagon. As it drove away the Tek-Judge in charge of the CSI team approached them.

"'Fraid I can't get anything on the bullet that iced the broad," he said apologetically, "but I've ID her with a biometrics match. Kimberly Noelle Calitri. She's famous or something," he said blithely.

Anderson just looked at him blankly. "Really?" she asked archly. "You use fingerprints or her vital statistics?" The tech blushed. "I know who she was – I arrested her _before_ she lost her face."

"Well, now you have confirmation, Ma'am," he said stiffly. "For the record," he added, "fingerprints. Her measurements, while distinctive, are not unique. She is also wearing a foundation garment which would make obtaining accurate biometrics difficult without stripping her."

Anderson fixed him with a gimlet stare. "There are some secrets women should get to keep," she told him darkly.

"Fingerprints," growled Dredd as something occurred to him. "Can you lift a print here?" The Tek-Judge nodded. Dredd handed him the evidence bag. "Outside chance," he admitted to Anderson, "but you've gotta try."

The tech flipped a set of long-lensed goggles down over his eyes and lifted the brass from the bag. "It's been fired," he said as the goggles focused, gears and rings whirring and spinning. "Standard seven sixty-two centerfire, nothing remarkable about it. You think it's from the sniper?" he asked.

Dredd shook his head. "From the sniper, but not the shot that killed her; it was cold when I found it." The tech nodded, understanding.

"Planted it to throw you off," he said. "A seven sixty-two could have killed her, but so could any number of other calibers." He turned the cartridge slowly in front of the unblinking lenses of his goggles. "Gotcha," he said with a smile.

"Fingerprint?" asked Anderson. She looked at Dredd. "Surely he'd wear gloves?"

"He did," said the Tek-Judge. "Glove print." He turned it and showed her. "See?"

Without the enhancement and filtering of the goggles she could see nothing, of course. She didn't even bother looking. "Can you match it?" she asked.

"No," he said. "It's too even for that – which might actually help you." He dropped it back in the evidence bag and handed it back to Dredd, flipping the goggles up. He blinked once or twice as his eyes adjusted. "It's a uniform glove – but not Street. Those are vat-grown leather – the material's better than the synthetic stuff. They've got a natural grain – you can match those like a fingerprint. But this is completely regular, purely synthetic. I'd have to check with the databases, but it looks like it's insulated flexiceramic cloth."

"Who uses those?" asked Dredd. The tech shrugged.

"Judges who handle a lot of high-voltage gear," he said. "Some of the boys in R&amp;D."

"Or SJS with their tasers," realized Anderson.

"Now I never said that, Ma'am." He looked nervous, standing very stiff and straight-backed. "I merely report my findings. Now, that was an informal field assessment of evidence – you have logged nothing with me and no report will be filed until you do." He reached for a datapad, suddenly formal. "Do either of you have any evidence you wish to log from the crime scene?" he asked meaningfully.

"Nope," said Dredd, crumpling the evidence bag into his fist. "Thanks."

"No skin off my nose," said the Tek-Judge. "After all," he added pointedly, "I didn't do anything except ID a slab." He touched the first two fingers of his hand to his eyebrow and flashed a quick quasi-salute. "Well, we should bounce," he said brightly. "Stiffs don't walk to resyk, you know."

"Take care," said Anderson as he walked back to the meat-wagon, slamming the rear door on the last of the slabs and driving away. She turned and looked up at Dredd. "Not good," was all she said.

"Is it ever?" he asked. He glanced around – the crime-scene was deserted now, slabs and grabs and J-Dept personnel gone. Crews would come to collect the mopad later, taking it to the impound for Kim's heirs to collect or – more likely – to be seized and auctioned off, the profits going into Justice Department coffers. There'd be a fight over which section got it – 119 because the grabs were Daz's, 13 because it happened here, 24 because it was registered there. Maybe even PsiDiv would get in on the action – but Dredd doubted Anderson would bother. Let the SectComs argue it out. Dredd shook his head slightly – just another reason to never allow them to promote him to heavy-bronze. "I hate politics," he said.

"But you love justice," countered Anderson. She looked right through his visor into his eyes. "I need you, Joe – this is serious," she said. "This isn't just just ambition, Rawne wanting _Aegis_ and psis for SJS. IA are in bed with perps, and someone with a lot of bronze is covering it up. Cal wanted a full, public investigation – who's got the in with the Chief Judge to block that?"

"Almost anyone," explained Dredd. "It would make sense to her. Open investigations aren't SJS's style. It'd be bad for morale, and imagine if the screamsheets got hold of it." He shook his head. "All someone would have to do is _suggest_ it and the Chief Judge would go right along. If they painted Cal as over-zealous, or even ambitious, wanting to use this to advance himself, that would seal the deal."

Anderson folded her arms and kicked the tire of his bike in frustration. "I drokking hate politics," she spat.

"Heh." Dredd made the nearest noise he ever did to a laugh, "but you love justice, right? Glad to see I taught you something. Come on," he said, mounting up and beckoning her to sit behind him. "Let's get you to the med bay and then get some food inside you. Khayr's is open for lunch in thirty – I'll spring for curry."

She laughed. "You _hate_ curry," she said.

"Yeah," he admitted, "but . . ." His voice trailed off. "But you like it," he finished, lamely.

**A/n : **The end of another story! What did you think?

This last chapter really ties this story into the larger narrative I am creating of J-Dept corruption and mystery, so there might be references here you don't get if you haven't read the other stories. I think it stands on its own, however – but the "full experience" is got with the wider narrative.

A few minor references which are familiar to comic &amp; fanfic readers, but might be unfamiliar to those only engaged with the movie;

"For Forest or the forge?" is inspired by two things – firstly, the character of Forest from Giraffe on the Moon's story "Boundaries". She is the badge-maker, and receives the badges from the honored dead to be placed on the wall of remembrance. Secondly, the idea I invented (which is discussed in more detail in "Shakedown the Dream", the next story I am working on) whereby the badges of traitor Judges are sundered in an atomic furnace so the very metal itself is destroyed.

Anderson's quip about getting tied up is NOT flirting – but I'm sure someone will read it that way! Rather, it is meant to be a tongue-in-check reference to the tendency for Dredd to get captured in the comics. It seemed to happen every other episode – a necessary thing to build some drama, I suppose, but a little unrealistic for a movie or non-episodic story!

Anderson's head injury – the reason she is taking all those pills – occurs in _Dredd 2_ by aaron.92 (which is canonical for my stories).

The 'lawrod' DMR is – like the 'blockrocker' LSW – an invented weapon (although the 'lawrod' was the name used in the comics for the predecessor to the widowmaker). The Designated Marksman Rifle is a common feature in many armies – it is designed to provide precise, accurate fire against specific targets – a sort of "squad-level sniper". For logistics chains, it usually chambers the same round as the main squad weapon – hence it being 9mm like the lawgiver. Of course, a pistol and rifle can't chamber the same round easily – but I think we can fudge that here!

Hershey is mentioned – her name appears in the background in the movie, but she is a major comics character. A solid, dedicated Judge, rising high in the ranks quickly. She will be making more appearances in my stories (and is mentioned again in "Highway Don't Care").

I finally broke down and gave the Chief Judge a name – Goodman, which seems to be the fanon-approved name here! Goodman was the first Chief Judge of the comics – although his personality wasn't clearly developed and he looked nothing like the Chief Judge in the movie, I like the name.

Slocum is a character from "The Day The Law Died" - he is Cal's right-hand man. Much of his slimy personality here is inspired not only by the necessity to have the male characters in this piece demonstrate some kind of chauvinism, but also Giraffe on the Moon's portrayal of him in the opening chapters of "Souls and Circuits".

"Doctor Kildare" was a famous fictional doctor, with books, movies, TV series and even comic books. The name also appears in the Dredd comics as belonging to a Medi-Tek (likely inspired by that source).

Daz's first name of "Estelle" is given because, simply enough, it means "Star" and she was based on Starsurfer108.

The noddle-shop "Khayr's" is named after the fanfic author of the same name (very active in the fandom) &amp; Anderson's love of curry comes from her stories.

Phew! Lots of little in-universe references, there – hope it wasn't too impenetrable! Why not tell me what you think? The review box is just below here – I see lots of hits, but not many reviews. Tell me what you like, and – who knows – I might write it? Tell me what you _don't_ like and I _won't_ write it!


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